


Sergei

by iamme_whatcanisay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Animal Abuse, Case Fic, Death, Fantasizing, M/M, Massage, Minor Violence, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 63,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamme_whatcanisay/pseuds/iamme_whatcanisay
Summary: After returning home from Afghanistan with a bullet in his shoulder, John Watson's physical therapist directs him to a masseuse to help facilitate his healing.  At the Zen Mind and Body Massage Parlor, he meets Sergei, a tall, professional masseur of Eastern European descent - and that's when everything changes.





	1. Sergei

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came from a tumblr post from anotherwellkeptsecret, and the characterization of Sergei is in reference to Cleo2010's phenomenal fic: Curious Case, which I highly recommend.

_"This is a story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside-down..."_

The radio clicked off. God, but it was tedious. The constant influx of _people_ \- having to talk with them, laugh with them, _touch_ them. He could hardly stand it. He was certain that he would need to asphyxiate someone (or multiple someones) by the end of the day.  The facade he was required to maintain was slipping, and slipping fast.  The only thing that helped get him through was the thought of catching the McHarvey gang in the act. Just a few more days, then he could quit this hellhole.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and plastered on a fake smile while opening the door. "Patricia, you have new client for me, yes?" He spoke with a heavy Eastern European accent, holding his "a's" out long and slightly rolling his "r's."

Patricia blushed and nodded enthusiastically. "Yep, Sergei." She clutched a file in her hand and smiled at him before handing it over. "His name is John Watson. He was referred to us from Brighton Physical Therapy." She leaned in close as Sergei read over the file in his hand and added conspiratorially, "He's a solider."

Sergei glanced up and almost frowned at her mischievous grin before catching himself. "Ah, the soldier, he have the nice body, yes?"

She blushed harder and grinned wider. "You'll have to let me know, Sergei." She winked at him as she turned around and headed back to her desk.

The suffocating atmosphere! God! All this _talking_ and _interacting_ would be the death of him! Two more days, just two more days - three tops - and then he will be done. He walked down the hall and stopped before door number seven, which had a sign on the wall marked, 'John Watson.' Sergei pasted another fake smile on his face before walking into the room. A man was laying face-down on the table, completely nude, save for the towel laid over his backside, as was procedure. He instantly looked up when the door opened and regarded Sergei quietly. Sergei knew from past experience that clients, especially new clients, often reacted to a full-body massage in one of two ways; they either talked throughout the entire thing to show that they were completely comfortable with the procedure or they laid quietly until the entire ordeal was over. He greatly hoped this new client would fall into the latter category.

"No worry, Mr. Watson. My name is Sergei Kuznetsov. I massage you today. Please, make yourself comfortable - relax."

The man on the table nodded stiffly and laid his head back on the table face-down.

Falling into his well-memorised routine, Sergei spoke again as he dimmed the lights. "I get anything for you, Mr. Watson? Some water, some music?" He hoped he said 'no.'

"No, thank you."

Sergei breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, I start massage now. I use oil - it is warm - it help the massage easier."

Watson made no noise; he just nodded, acknowledging that he had heard Sergei.

Sergei went to the counter on the side of the room where the warmed massage oil was kept, increasingly hopeful that this next hour was not going to be spent making small-talk and further taxing his already overstimulated brain. He placed the file on the counter before he oiled his hands and moved back to the table where Watson had not spoken a word nor moved a muscle since he walked away. Relaxing, himself, Sergei began by massaging Watson's shoulders. He noted that they were extremely tense and could not quite determine whether it was due to unease, extended stress, or extensive muscle strain. He gripped his shoulders and kneaded the muscles there, urging them to loosen and relax. Watson had been referred from Brighton Physical Therapy, which meant that he was recovering from some kind of injury. They only received referrals from physical therapists when their training sessions would not be enough to help the patient recuperate. Clearly, this man had undergone a major injury involving his muscular system and for the next fifty-eight minutes, it was Sergei's job to try to determine _where_ that injury was and _how_ to make it better.

He pushed on Watson's muscles in his shoulder with his palm, grabbed them with his fingers, rolled them with his hand, and then pushed down with his palm again. He continued kneading the trapezoid muscle as his thumbs ran along his spine and up the back of his neck. Sergei heard him huff out a silent breath of contentment, but was not bothered by it - he was used to that reaction by now. He ran his thumbs up and down his neck, continuing to massage his shoulders while doing so. After a few minutes of constant kneading, Sergei felt Watson's muscles relax slightly. He knew he would not be able to loosen them completely - not after only one hour of massaging - so he moved on to Watson's right shoulder and arm.

He started with both hands on the deltoid, massaging and kneading, before running his left hand down the length of Watson's arm. His right hand remained on the deltoid, rolling the muscle about with his dexterous fingers, while his left hand roamed the length of his arm, occasionally stopping at the triceps, biceps, flexor digitorum, flexor carpi ulnaris, and flexor carpi radialis as needed. He continued massaging, kneading up and down Watson's arm until he felt those muscles relax slightly as well. He grabbed Watson's right hand and gently rotated it around in a circle at his wrist. Sergei ran his fingers across all of the muscles in his hand, but determined that they were uninjured. Satisfied, he moved over to Watson's other arm.

Just as he reached out for his left shoulder, Watson flinched. "Mr. Watson," Sergei infused concern into his voice, "I hurt you?" He reached for the shoulder gently, determining this to be the source of the injury.

"No," Watson spoke quickly, "no, you didn't hurt me, it's just, uh.. I have... um..."

Sergei waited a moment before cutting in. "You have wound, no? From bullet? I be careful, I promise you." However, just as Sergei reached out and touched Watson's arm, the man pulled back and turned to face him.

"What did you say?"

_Stupid!_  All his mental factulities screeched to a halt as he realised his error. He offered Watson a bright, but confused, smile as he sought to regain control. "Sorry? I no understand."

" _Bullet_ wound. You said I had a bullet wound."

"You are soldier, yes? You come from Brighton?"

Watson narrowed his eyes slightly. "That's right. Have they said something?"

Sergei looked at the clock: forty-five more minutes. "No. They tell me nothing. I guess. I see 'soldier,' I guess 'bullet.' No more, no less." He held his hands up pleadingly and endeavored to give his most winning smile, but Watson didn't seem to be buying it.

"Yeah..." he agreed reluctantly but still with an air of skepticism, "alright..." He laid his head back down on the table, but Sergei could see that the work he had already done on Watson's muscles had vanished and they remained as tight as they were before.

With an inward sigh, Sergei continued with Watson's left arm; beginning again at his deltoid and working his way down to his hand. He berated himself for his slip-up, but more than that, he was confused as to how he had let it happen. He had been under cover for a week now and he had never, _never_ slipped up and deduced more than he was supposed to know. Well, okay, there _had_ been that time with the stupid, old, rich woman - what was her name? - and her son who was pilfering money from her. Oh, and that time with the 30-something year old man who had started smoking again after kicking the habit for nearly three years. Then, yes, alright, there had been that one time with the nineteen year old girl who was planning on dropping out of uni to move in with her smack-head boyfriend. But more importantly, none of his other clients had questioned how he had known those things. Or if they had, they never once second-guessed his explanation. He stopped momentarily, holding Watson's hand in his, and looked at him again. His shoulders remained tense and rigid and any hint of relaxation that was there before was completely gone. Sergei put Watson's hand back on the table and moved closer to start massaging his back.

Slightly intrigued and desperately wishing to wile away the remaining thirty-seven minutes, Sergei began looking for something else he could deduce about this man. His hands ran up Watson's back, pushing and kneading the muscles, as his eyes darted everywhere; from the top of his greyish, blonde/brown hair to the bottom of his bare, calloused heels. The entire time, Watson had not relaxed at all. It was obvious that he was on high alert, marking every movement Sergei was making. Soldier, indeed. That's when he decided.

"Forgive me," his voice was just above a whisper, but in the stillness of the room, his heavy accent seemed to boom out, "I am simply curious." His hands never stopped rubbing up and down Watson's back, pausing only to work out some decidedly stubborn knots and kinks, before resuming their track up and down. "You were soldier, where you fight at? You fight in Afghanistan or you fight in Iraq?"

At this, Watson pushed himself up to his elbows and turned around, ogling at Sergei. Sergei's hands fell and rested on Watson's lower back as a result. He forced an innocent, questioning look upon his face, but smiled inwardly. "How did you know that?" Watson's voice was a mere whisper.

Reluctant to pull away, but wanting to look properly chagrined, Sergei raised his left hand to his chest with a look of apologetic surprise on his face. "I sorry! I not mean to upset you. I just hear 'soldier,' I think Afghanistan and Iraq. I not mean to upset. Just talk - that all. I just want talk."

Watson shook his head resolutely. "Nope. I'll ask you again, how did you know?" His eyes were hard and unforgiving.

Sergei smiled wider inside, but forced himself to look confused. "I sorry? I tell you, I guess-."

"No." Watson held up an accusing finger and pointed it at Sergei. "No, you didn't just guess. Her Majesty's Army is located in at least 72 different countries, 29 of which have some kind of fighting going on which could have accounted for the bullet I sustained during service - which I'm still not convinced you just _guessed_ on that one, either." His voice was more or less level, but his eyes showed the ire behind them. Sergei almost became giddy in his excitement. "I'll ask you _again_. How. Did. You. Know."

Sergei couldn't believe the astuteness of the man before him. He had never seen anyone look past his disguise or question his explanations - simple and ridiculous as they had always seemed to him - he sized Watson up and time seemed to slow to a stop as he made his decision. With his right hand still resting upon Watson's lower back, he began speaking, rapid-fire, his accent never wavering once. "You _are_ soldier. They tell us in report from Brighton Physical Therapy, but haircut, posture, muscle-tone, they tell me too. Brighton is physical therapy for soldier - army send soldier there when hurt - make sense you were hurt while fighting..." as he said it something screamed ' _WRONG_!' in his ear "... No, no fighting. You are soldier, yes, but fighter, no. There no scar, wound, match with fighting, so what? There is the Chaplin, but they are all stupid and you are most clearly not. Who else can join a war but not to fight?" Watson lifted himself up a bit taller on his forearms as Sergei's eyes traced all over his face. "Ah!" He exclaimed, "A doctor, no? Yes! Make perfect sense. Explain the shame you feel at not healing own body." He huffed to himself. "Preposterous! Doctor cannot heal muscle wound just by understanding them." Sergei's eyes zeroed in on Watson's face again as Watson remained frozen in place. "You have tan, yes? But no tan on back, only on wrist. Not much sun in England, so you work somewhere there is much sun. Of 29 countries you say, 12 have fighting in much sun, but 10 fighting is not constant. Only 2 fighting constant - Afghanistan, Iraq." He paused and continued to watch Watson. "Simple, no? I guess, yes?" He moved down to Watson's left leg and began massaging the biceps femoris and adductor magnus, waiting to see what Watson would say or do next.

He was not, however, prepared when Watson simply stated, "And the bullet wound?"

He never ceased massaging Watson's thigh as he offered a genuine smile. "Many wound from army is bullet. The bombs, yes, but many more are bullet. You look very well from back," Watson cleared his throat, "so wound must be in front. It is recent wound - you are still at Brighton - but have shown no major discomfort since I walk in. So, wound is small. Yes, some bomb explode, make small wound, but more usual, bullet make small wound. See? I guess." He moved down to Watson's calf muscle and began alternating between massaging his calf and his foot.

After a moment, Watson released a gush of air and a laugh that sounded more like a bark. "Guess? Hell no, 'guess' is not the word I would have used. 'Brilliant' is the word I would have used. ' _Bloody_ brilliant.'" He turned to lay back down as Sergei's head whipped up to look at him.

"Brilliant, yes? You think brilliant?" He was a bit bewildered. No one, not even those who knew his real identity - especially those who knew his real identity - had ever called his deductions 'brilliant' before.

Watson laid back on his chest, but turned his head back and down to look at Sergei, who stood, staring at him, holding Watson's foot in one hand and calf muscle in the other. "Of course. That was amazing, spectacular." And, as if he hadn't just turned the entire universe upside-down, Watson turned back and rested his head face down upon the table again. Sergei saw there were thirteen minutes left on the clock, but before returning his attention to Watson's right leg, he also noticed that his back and shoulders had once again relaxed slightly.

He finished the massage in silence, which he was thankful for, as his mind was running on overdrive trying to understand Watson's strange behaviour. He had no precedent for this. How was he meant to respond? Should he say something? Do something? What did ordinary people do in this situation? But most of all, how could he arrange it so Watson came back to _him_ and not to one of the other roaming morons in this office. At the end of the hour, a gentle knock appeared at the door to let Sergei and his client know that their time was up. It was one of the things Sergei hated about the place. There's a bloody clock on the wall - what did they think? That he was incapable of telling time? That he would try to keep his clients in the room longer than necessary? But today, he hated that knock even more because he _did_ want to keep Watson there, if only to bask in the acceptance, peace, and blessed silence he had enjoyed for the past hour. But Watson had heard the knock as well and was already starting to sit up on the table. In hindsight, Sergei might have admitted that he had panicked a bit as he reached out and grabbed Watson by the arm. "We did not finish with proper massage," he said hastily, his accent almost dropping.

Watson smiled bemused. "It's alright, I won't rat you out. I'll be back in three days anyway." His smile became grim. "Therapist's orders."

Sergei definitely panicked. Three days? In two days' time, he should have gathered ample evidence for a formal charge. An extra day was almost unthinkable. As he tried desperately to determine how to get Watson in sooner - everyday, for every hour of the day - Watson wrapped the towel around his waist and began walking to the changing room to get dressed.

"Ask for me!" Sergei blurted out, his grammar failing him in his haste to stop Watson from leaving the room. If Watson noticed the difference in syntax or the slight drop in the Eastern European accent, he made no mention of it as he turned around to face Sergei.

"Sorry, what?"

Sergei composed and calmed himself before speaking again. "You come back, you ask for Sergei, yes? I fix. I give you proper massage - full hour." His eyes pleaded with Watson.

Watson huffed out a laugh. "Yes, alright." He smiled at Sergei's brightened face and then turned and walked through the door to the changing room.

Sergei stood there staring at the door. Three days? He had hoped to suss out the McHarvey gang in two days so he could _finally_ lay this case to rest. He continued staring at the door. One more day would provide extra time to gather additional evidence - make sure the case against Sam McHarvey is air-tight. Lestrade would appreciate that. He continued staring at the door as the words 'brilliant,' 'amazing,' and 'spectacular' filled the air.

One more day. He could do one more day.


	2. Luminescence

As the third day of his self-imposed deception began, Sergei could have kicked himself a dozen times for agreeing to stay on an extra day. He should have convinced John Watson to come in early; he should have just let the man walk through the door, never to see him again; he should just walk out now and leave all these annoying, boring, _stupid_ people to their annoying, boring, _stupid_ lives and their annoying, boring, _stupid_ problems! But then he heard 'brilliant' in his mind yet again and saw the look of amazement on Watson's face and Sergei sucked in a deep breath and continued to fake-smile at everyone he saw and make incessant, light-hearted, inconsequential remarks about everything from the tea and coffee in the break room to the _stupid_ , _bloody_ weather!

Sergei was fast losing control until, at last, he finally heard a knock on his door indicating that his hour had run out with his current client. He knew John Watson was next on the list and he hastened to get the old man, who had been blabbering at him for the past hour, out of the room. He was still talking about his granddaughter who was currently in uni for nursing, and didn't that sound interesting? and oh, by the way, she just happens to be single, and would he like to see a photo? as Sergei gently, but resolutely, pushed the man through the door to the changing room. As the room drifted to blessed silence, Sergei took just a moment to clear his mind before he walked out into the hallway to collect the file on Watson from the receptionist. He rejoiced at the fact that he could finally be free of this place in one hour's time. He had two more clients scheduled, but he had no intention of actually seeing them. After Watson left the room, Sergei planned to walk out the back door - or the front door, depending on how badly he wanted to completely sever any and all ties to this godforsaken place.

"John Watson again, eh Sergei?" Patricia smiled knowingly at him and handed him the file.

"Sorry? I no understand." Sergei took the file, but looked at her confused.

She laughed. "When he called up to make the appointment, he asked specifically for you. I told him you were pretty booked, but he said you practically insisted on him coming to see you." She gently pushed his upper arm and teased, "Is there anything you want to tell me, Sergei? You never did let me know if his body lived up to his soldier status." She smiled wickedly.

Understanding passed over Sergei's face. "Ah, yes! The solider with the good body. No," Sergei denied, "last time, Watson no get full hour. I feel bad. I promise him, I do better this time."

Patricia only grinned wider and said, "Uh huh, I'm sure. But tell me the truth; he is a looker, isn't he? Probably doubly so with no clothes on?"

Sergei stepped back and frowned at her. "I am professional, Patricia. I not look at client in such way."

Patricia laughed out loud and murmured, "I'm sure you don't," as she waved him to room number four before walking back to the front desk.

Sergei saw 'John Watson' written on the board hanging on the wall next to room four. He stopped before the door and took a deep breath in before opening it. As he walked into the room, the sight before him was no different than any other sight he had seen that day - just a person laying on a table with a towel covering their backside waiting for a massage. That image in and of itself would not have been enough to have had an effect on Sergei. No, what stopped Sergei's breath and got his heart caught in his throat was the light that lit up Watson's eyes and the joy that lit up his face as he turned and watched Sergei enter the room.

"Hello, Sergei." His voice was warm. "I'm here to see about that full hour you owe me."

Time was frozen for a moment as Sergei took in all he could from the man before him. Just as Watson was beginning to show signs of uncertainty, Sergei confidently strode into the room toward the counter which held the warm massage oil. "Yes, good. I happy to see you. Very happy." He put the file down and lathered his hands with oil as he turned back to Watson, who was watching him, amused. "We begin now, yes?"

Watson nodded his head and lowered it back down to the table.

Sergei started at the shoulders again; kneading the tight muscles and physically willing them to relax beneath his touch. His thumbs trailed along Watson's neck, stroking up and down, while his palms continued to massage his shoulders. He allowed himself no longer than eight minutes precisely before he forced himself to move on to Watson's right arm. As he continued massaging away Watson's aches and pains, he felt himself begin to calm as well - both body and mind. He was not too surprised to find his body relaxing, as he had often found that continual, menial, physical labor had that effect on him. No, what surprised him the most was the calmness he felt within his own mind. He rarely felt that state of calm outside of chemical stimulants and certainly never within the context of this office. But as he gripped Watson's right deltoid with his right hand and ran his left palm down Watson's right arm, he keenly felt a sense of relaxation settle over his mind. It was so peaceful, so calm, so quiet. Blissful.

And instead of detracting from Sergei's sense of mental calm, he found that the soft sighs and murmurs of contentment emanating from Watson's throat actually helped ground Sergei's sense of mental peace into reality. His awareness became heightened without detracting from his peaceful state of mind. After eight minutes, Sergei moved over to Watson's left arm to work at the muscles on his other side. Being so present and relaxed, Sergei began to think over the case which brought him to the Zen Mind and Body Massage Parlor. Inwardly, Sergei scoffed at the name and would have felt a sense of derision for it if he had been capable of feeling anything other than blissful calmness. Sam McHarvey had been smuggling jewels out of Africa and into London, that much was clear. But what Sergei had been less clear on was the precise method of his illegal extraction. How had he found the jewels in the first place? How had he gotten them out of Africa? How had he smuggled them into London? And, most importantly, how had he been getting away with selling them all throughout London without getting caught? When Lestrade brought these questions to him two weeks ago, he had determined the first two answers before he had even left his flat. The third answer brought him to "the Zen," as the workers liked to call it, and the fourth required him to join the Zen as a masseur to infiltrate the gang. Sergei admitted to being more than a little disappointed in himself for taking so long to finally reach his conclusion, which looking back on it now was obvious.

"It has to do with the changing rooms, doesn't it?"

Sergei whipped his head up immediately. "I - sorry?"

"The jewels - they're being smuggled out of here through the changing rooms, right?" Watson lifted his head and looked back.

Sergei stared at Watson in horrified amazement as he quickly tried to replay the past... he looked at the clock... 48?! minutes in his head. He looked down at his hands, and, sure enough, he had stopped at Watson's right leg - his massage was right on schedule, but he had no recollection of what exactly had transpired during that time.

 _Oh god!_ How much did he say? What did he reveal? He vaguely worried about his cover being blown as he quickly racked his brain and tried to recall his, apparently, one-sided conversation. "Changing room?" He was stalling for time.

"Well, yeah, you said there had been some jewels being smuggled out of here and the police couldn't figure out how they were leaving."

At nine minutes on the dot, Sergei automatically moved from Watson's right foot to his head in order to massage his scalp.

"Changing rooms make sense, don't they? Clients' clothes just laying there, exposed to anyone. It'd be so easy for someone to set-up a fake appointment, come in for an hour and leave with the jewels in his pocket, no one the wiser, right?"

Sergei stared at the back of Watson's head in amazement. "Mr. Watson! You are right! Ah! What fool are we!" He grabbed Watson's head and lifted it up as he crouched down to look at him. "The jewel - they escape in changing room, yes?!" He laughed and pressed his fingertips more solidly against Watson's head.

Watson laughed in return and was just about to say something when there was a gentle knock on the door. Suddenly, Sergei's face fell and his happiness fizzled into nothing.

"Ah, that's the hour, then?" Watson remarked as he sat up, wrapping the towel around himself. "At least we made it all the way through that session, eh, Sergei?" He flashed him a prize-winning smile and got up from the table.

Think! For Christ's sake, _think_! His eyes darted back and forth as his brain tripped all over itself, working overtime, trying to figure out some way to keep in contact with this man. But he could do no more than just stand there, mouth gaping open, grasping for something to say. Watson walked to the door, oblivious. "You'll have to let me know what happens with the jewelry smugglers next time, Sergei."

Sergei drew a blank. "Next time?"

Watson turned to face him. "Yeah, next time I come. Every three days, remember? Therapist's orders?"

Sergei stood there for a moment. Three days? Three more days of _this_?! But then he saw Watson's smile and dark blue eyes and unkempt hair. He heard Watson praise his mind, inquire into his Work, and ask to see him again. And without a moment's thought or hesitation, he heard himself respond. "Ah, yes. Three days, Mr. Watson."

Watson smiled, nodded once, and walked through the door.

And Sergei walked back out into the hall to get ready for his next client.


	3. John

Towards the end of the third day, Sergei couldn't keep still. He tried to convince himself that he was only staying on in order to solidify the case against the McHarvey gang, but after the first day, he had gathered sufficient evidence that the jewels were, in fact, being smuggled out through the changing rooms to obtain an arrest warrant for three of his fellow colleagues. He tried to convince himself that he was only staying on in order to make sure they didn't make a run for it, but by lunchtime on the second day, the police had successfully arrested all three. By the third day, Sergei could not delude himself any longer.

He was staying on for the sake of John Watson.

It seemed ludicrous to him - completely asinine! The only reason he would tolerate touching and talking with these idiotic people for eight hours a day, five days a week, was for a case. He solved the case; the mystery had been explained, the evidence collected, and the criminals detained. Why the hell did he feel the need to continue with this ridiculous masquerade and continue to work in this ridiculous, god-forsaken dump for the sake of maintaining communication with _one_ man? Yes, okay, he couldn't deny that Watson _had_ , slightly, somewhat, _vaguely_ nudged him in the right direction as to how the jewels were leaving the Zen. He had been completely wrong about how the changing rooms were being used, of course, but he had been much closer than anyone else Sergei had met, including Scotland Yard, which wasn't saying much, but did say _something_. And, yes, he did have the most endearing quality of praising Sergei's intellect and deductive abilities, which Sergei was completely unused to, but did not mind in the least. His thoughts continued to circle around and around themselves as Sergei's third day progressed.

However, just as he had been three days prior, Dr. Watson was towards the bottom of the list of his clients, which meant Sergei had to get through five miserably long, tedious hours before he could see him.

As he wrapped up his session with his fourth client - middle-aged, divorced woman with two teenage kids - Sergei's mind began to wander as he thought about the hour that lie before him. The knock on the door brought Sergei back to the present where he found that Ms. ... Wilson? had been talking.

"...and they're over at their father's most of the time, so, you see, they wouldn't bother us in any way."

Sergei was about to blindly agree with the woman, just to get her out of the room, until her choice of pronouns stuck out in his mind. "Sorry, 'us'? I no understand."

Ms. Wilson smiled at him as she gathered the towel around herself. "'Us,' in English, it means 'you and me.'"

Sergei thought back and recalled Ms. Wilson mention something about dinner plans, but he had only halfway been listening at the time. "Oh. No. Sorry. I am sorry, Misses. The Zen, they no like..." he put on the appearance of struggling to find the right word "...entrancement? Entangment?..."

Ms. Wilson's face fell. "Entanglements?" She helpfully supplied.

Sergei nodded quickly and gestured to her. "Yes, entanglements. The Zen not be happy with entanglements." He shrugged and offered her a small smile as he held a hand out to the changing room door.

"Oh, well, alright." Ms. Wilson walked slowly to the changing room, but the instant the door was shut, Sergei bolted out of the room and into the hall.

Patricia, thankfully, said nothing as she handed him John Watson's file, but she did smirk at him as she told him that he would be in room two. File in hand, Sergei forced himself to slow his pace as he walked down the hall to room number two. Without hesitating, he opened the door and walked in.

John Watson laid face-down upon the table, as usual, and looked up at Sergei's entrance with delight - also, as usual. "I've been dying to know, Sergei, have the police sorted it all out yet?" When Sergei just looked at him confused, he continued, "The jewels? Did the police work out how they were being smuggled out?"

Sergei walked over to the counter, placed the file down, and added oil to his hands eager to begin. He walked back to Watson who was looking up at him expectantly. He started at the shoulders, as always. "Yes," he answered, rolling Watson's trapezius muscle in his hands. He tried not to grimace as he continued, "police, they find who responsible for jewel."

"And?" Watson asked, still looking up at him, his head turned back slightly towards Sergei in his eagerness. "Was it like we thought? Did they use the changing rooms?"

Sergei couldn't help but notice that Watson had said 'we,' but he let it pass as he clarified. "Changing room, yes - jewel, they leave through changing room."

"Ah ha!" Watson exclaimed. "I knew it!"

Sergei continued, undisturbed, "No fake appointment though. All client real. No client, they not know of stolen jewel." Sergei ran his thumbs up Watson's neck, right on schedule.

Watson deflated a bit. "I don't understand. How did they use the changing rooms to get the jewels out if no one knew about them?"

Sergei smiled as he continued kneading the tension out of Watson's shoulders. Subconsciously, he noted that they were not nearly as tight as they had been when he first came into the Zen - he supposed the physical therapy was working. "Client no know of jewel, that why it so easy for them to smuggle jewel out." Sergei ran his fingers over Watson's skin as he moved over to Watson's right arm, kneading, grabbing, and rolling the muscles to help them relax.

"They didn't..." Watson hesitated, "then, how were they able to get any money from them? Sell them?" He turned his head slightly to look at Sergei.

Sergei looked down and took a moment to relish in the sense of camaraderie he felt with this man, despite only knowing him for a week. "Client, all fifteen, they agree they are attacked later in day. No client report item missing, but jacket, coat, bag, they all torn off client person. Suspicious, yes? Police set up camera, watch masseur," he gripped Watson's arm tighter in demonstration, "plant jewel in coat. Man in coat leave, police, they follow man. Man are attacked later, police step in, and voilá! police take attacker away. They search house, find jewel, money, phone. Phone contact with three masseur at the Zen. Police, they arrest all three." Sergei relocated to Watson's left arm and began massaging the muscles there.

Silence fell upon the room before Watson scarcely more than breathed, "Extraordinary."

Sergei stopped momentarily, "Extraordinary?"

Watson turned his head to the left. "Yeah; amazing, spectacular, phenomenal."

Sergei continued massaging Watson's biceps and forearm in silence.

"Makes me a little concerned to leave my clothes here alone, though."

Sergei laughed unexpectedly and Watson soon joined in. As the laughter died down, a stillness settled comfortably over them and Sergei continued to massage Watson's left arm. He held Watson's hand gently in his own and slowly rotated it around, attempting to loosen up the muscles of his wrist. He then began rubbing his thumb across Watson's palm, easing the muscles there as well. A peaceful calmness washed over Sergei and he became acutely aware of the soft scratching sound of his skin sliding over Watson's skin. The warmth of Watson's palm seeped into his body, through his fingers, and lodged resolutely into his heart. Sergei knew that this was not, in fact, how heat actually transferred, but the hyperbole so accurately described the sensation he was feeling that he couldn't help but think it.

Twenty-five minutes past the hour, Sergei moved to massage Watson's back. His hands roamed over tight muscles beneath warm, smooth skin. In the two weeks or so that he had been playing as masseur, he had never really paid attention to the skin or body beneath his hands, but with Watson, he found himself increasingly more intrigued as to how it looked and felt. As his palms attempted to knead the pressure away, he felt the strength hidden beneath Watson's skin. As his fingers glided down his spine, he felt that the skin was actually much softer than it appeared. As his thumbs ran up and down the latissimus dorsi muscles, Sergei felt the solidness of Watson's body. A warmth he did not fully understand spread through his entire body as his attention zeroed in on the man laying before him. Watson's breathing raised and lowered his back in a steady rhythm and Sergei could feel the vibrations through his skin when Watson hummed or sighed in contentment.

As the eight minutes ticked rapidly to their end, Sergei decided then and there that he wanted to maintain communication with Watson and began thinking about what he could do or say that would allow him to do so. He imagined just telling Watson about his being undercover, but he feared that Watson might get angry with him for the deception and not want to see him again, so he quickly set that thought aside. He thought about what kept bringing Watson back, besides the orders of the therapist, and kept returning to the fact that Watson had asked him about the McHarvey case on two separate occasions and seemed genuinely interested in Sergei's work.

Sergei trailed his fingers lightly down to Watson's left leg as he thought about how he could use his work to maintain his association with him. His palms ran across the back of Watson's thigh, loosening taunt muscles as his fingers slid through the coarse, darkened hair that covered his leg. Sergei lost himself a bit in the scratchy, but soft, sensation of Watson's hair running through his fingers. The slide of his palms up and down Watson's calf muscle was beginning to become more of a caress than a massage. Sergei moved to Watson's foot, rotating it around his ankle as he had previously, but paying closer attention to it this time. He observed Watson's foot; hard calluses slowly softening, revealing that Watson had at one time spent many hours upon his feet, but had not been doing so recently. He ran his thumb over the arch of his foot, noting nothing unusual or significant about it. In fact, the closer he looked at Watson, the more he saw that there was nothing really remarkable about him at all. Aesthetically pleasing, yes, but so were many of the other clients Sergei had worked with while masquerading as a masseur at the Zen. Watson was of average height, perhaps slightly more toned than the average London male, but this was not surprising given his military background. He did appear to be slightly more intelligent than the average Londoner, but again, it was not a striking amount. Sergei recalled again how Watson had picked up on the use of the changing room in the McHarvey case before even Scotland Yard had. But again, that wasn't saying much.

Eighteen minutes to the hour, precisely, Sergei moved over to begin massaging Watson's right leg. He ran his fingers up the back of Watson's thigh like usual and began easing the tension out of his muscles. The skin was warm and Sergei didn't fail to notice that Watson's right leg had slightly more hair on the back than his left leg. He let his fingers drift to the inner and outer side of Watson's thigh as his palms and thumbs kneaded the muscles attempting to relax them. Every motion; every slide of palms, press of fingertips, and gyration of thumbs had become second nature to him over the past few weeks as he played Sergei, the masseur of Eastern European descent; however, they all became something else when he applied them to John Watson. He couldn't quite describe it, which frustrated and intrigued him to no end. Sergei's fingers drew circles over Watson's thigh and knee as he moved down to work on Watson's calf. When Sergei ran his palm down Watson's calf - _like_ _so_ \- the coarse hairs catching on his skin heightened his awareness tenfold. Then, if he pressed his fingertips into Watson's foot - _just here_ -

Watson's soft, but distinctive groan of appreciation seemed to fill the room.

\- then Watson would make a sound like that, which caused Sergei's heart to beat faster. He lost himself a bit in the feel and warmth of Watson's skin beneath his; however, after exactly nine minutes, he wrenched his hands away and moved up to Watson's head.

For the first time since working at the Zen, Sergei actually looked down and watched Watson's face as he threaded his fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp. His eyes were closed and all of the muscles in his face were relaxed. His mouth hung slightly open as he breathed slowly and deeply through it. Sergei could swear he could feel Watson's soothing breaths through his scalp as he gently readjusted his head so he would be facing down on the table. The peaceful calm that fell over him earlier in the massage reestablished itself and Sergei once more became fully aware at just how relaxed he, himself, was. His mind was blissfully quiet as he continued to push his fingers through Watson's short blondish-grey hair; over the occipital bone, around to the temporal bone, up over the parietal bone, then forward to the frontal bone. Around and around, his fingers continued their circuit, as he became more and more mesmerized with each pass, distantly noting the contended sighs emerging from Watson as he did so. Much too soon, a gentle knock on the door shattered his reverie and stilled his hands.

"Mmm," Watson murmured, his face still smushed into the table, "these things never seem to last as long as you think they should." He turned his head, causing Sergei's hands to fall free from his hair, and grinned up at him. "Seems like I just walked in the room fifteen minutes ago."

"Next time you ask for Sergei, you ask for two hour, yes?"

Watson grimaced and shrugged his shoulders as he sat up on the table, wrapping the towel around his waist. "Sorry, Sergei, Brighton has only recommended the one hour massage. Anything over that is on me, I'm afraid. And while I'd love to lay here for two hours..."

"Army pension not enough to cover expense. Yes. I understand, Mr. Watson."

Watson huffed out a laugh. "Call me 'John,' please. I call you 'Sergei,' seems only fair."

"John?" The name felt strange wrapped around Sergei's heavy Eastern European accent.

He laughed. "Yep, that's me. Just John." He glanced up at the wall and his face fell. "Oh, shit! I forgot I was supposed to cover for Susan today!" He looked back at Sergei, gathered the towel more tightly around himself, and stood up quickly. "Alright, Sergei, I'll see you in three more days if you're working then." He started walking to the door.

Sergei thought fleetingly about asking Wat--John to join him with his current case - a locked door, murder-suicide - always interesting - but he only had time to express a rushed, "Yes, absolutely, Mr. John!" as the door to the changing room clicked shut.

He stood there for a few extra moments, staring at the door. As his brain slowly worked its way back up to its normal noise and clatter, two things stuck out starkly from all the other chaos in his mind. First, he had not found a way to maintain contact outside of the Zen, which meant Sergei would have to stay on and deal with these incessant, _ridiculous_ people for three more days (and with a case on, no less!). Second, Sergei had been asked to call him 'John' instead of 'Mr. Watson.' It had to mean something, right? Wasn't that an indication of _something_? But Sergei wasn't quite sure what.

Another, somewhat louder knock at the door told Sergei that he had been standing in there for too long and that his next client was waiting in another room. He reluctantly turned away and headed to the hall to get ready for his next client, but his mind was swirling, overflowing with one word -

John.


	4. Resistance

As the months passed, John continued scheduling his one-hour massage appointments with Sergei every three days. Sergei continued struggling to juggle his career with this fool of a horse-and-pony show. This every-three-days business was seriously wearing on him. Not only because three days seemed like a completely unreasonable amount of time to wait before seeing John again, but also because Sergei was unable to adjust his availability at the Zen to only the days when John Watson would be there. One week, he'd show up on Sunday, Wednesday, and Saturday, which meant the next week, he'd show up on Tuesday and Friday, and then, the week after that, on Monday and Thursday and so on and so forth. Sergei couldn't realistically reduce his availability to 'every three days.' Management would laugh their arses off before they fired him and then where would he be? So, in an effort to maximise his chances of working with John every time he came in, Sergei continued to maintain his open availability and full-time status, switching or picking up shifts from his colleagues as needed. This was trying in-and-of itself, but became doubly so whenever he had a case on. He had been formally reprimanded for going off on a client twice now and had to work hard to keep himself in check in order to not be fired.

After eight months of Sergei working at the Zen, John had unknowingly helped him solve ten robberies, four missing persons, eight murders, and one very interesting murder-suicide - Sergei still wished John had accompanied him to that one. Really, it had been so nearly _perfect_. However, John knew very little of Sergei's true identity or life. Sergei shared what he felt it was safe to share (that he had an affinity for crime and was an avid reader of the papers for the latest up-to-date information regarding the goings-on at Scotland Yard) and kept hidden what he felt would send John packing, never to see him again (namely, that he was really a consulting detective - only one in the world - and had been undercover when they met, was not called Sergei, was not from the Ukraine, and was not honestly, truthfully, and never-has-been a masseur). Every time Sergei tried to find a way to establish contact with John outside of the Zen, he either got distracted discussing his current case, or John had to rush out of the room in order to fulfill his own obligations, or Sergei just lost himself so deeply in the peaceful companionship that always surrounded the two whenever silence fell over them.

He tried once to invite John to one of his cases, but John just thought he was asking him on a date, which resulted in a lot of uncomfortable ramblings about how John wasn't gay and although he liked Sergei, he just didn't like him in _that_ way. The rest of the massage was conducted in uncomfortable silence and Sergei seriously wondered whether he would see John again, but at the end of the day, he looked at his client schedule and, sure enough, saw John Watson's name listed in three days' time. Sergei vowed to never ask John outright again, lest he get too uncomfortable and leave for good.

However, he knew his time was running out. Physical therapy wouldn't last forever, and before long, Brighton would no longer recommend John seek out a masseur to help with his rehabilitation. Sergei knew that John wouldn't seek him out on his own, so he continued to try to find an excuse to see John outside of the Zen.

Sergei was ending his round with John's right foot and was moving up to his head when it happened. He had spoken with John about his current case earlier in the massage - another robbery; slightly dull, but ingenious in its execution - and John, still unknowingly, helped Sergei view the case in a new light, which helped expose some deductions that had been hidden before. After some exclamations of amazement, which, after eight months, still managed to surprise and please Sergei, they both fell into a companionable silence. They had been working in silence since and Sergei was just convincing himself that he could continue to keep up the charade if it meant maintaining contact with John, when said man spoke up.

"Well, Sergei..." His voice was muffled by the table, but he still sounded hesitant, "I've really enjoyed our time together."

A strong sense of foreboding fell upon Sergei and his fingers slowed in John's hair. "Yes, John. I, too, am happy to see you." He looked at the clock, they only had a few minutes before that hateful knock sounded at the door.

John huffed out a short laugh. "Seems your expertise in massage has paid off. The therapists at Brighton said I no longer need massage services, so they're ending their recommendations after today."

Sergei swallowed hard, but continued massaging John's head.

"I'd keep coming, Sergei, you know I would, it's just..."

"Army pension. Yes, I understand." His throat felt like it was closing in on him.

"Hell, Sergei! It's not even just the pension. I mean, I do locum work at a surgery nearby, but London is fucking expensive! I can barely get by with the little I earn there. I live in a small bedsit, but even that's almost more than I can afford. I have very few friends and even fewer relatives, so flat sharing isn't an option. I just--"

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Sergei kept his fingers embedded in John's hair.

John sighed. "I'm sorry, Sergei. I just can't come back again."

He stood there frozen with his fingers in John's hair, fingertips slightly digging into his skull. "You... You see Sergei... meet Sergei outside of Zen?"

John sighed, face still pressed against the table. "I don't know..." He turned his head which caused Sergei's hands to fall away. Then, he slowly sat up and gathered the towel around himself. He sat there on the table for a moment while Sergei watched him, desperately wracking his brain for something to say. After a few moments, John stood up, eyes still fixed on the floor. "It's probably best if I don't," he said quietly as he walked to the changing room.

Sergei opened his mouth and reached out a hand as John opened the door, but no words came out. The soft, resolute click of the latch closing echoed throughout the room. Sergei felt his heart stutter closed along with that latch and stood there staring at the closed door until another, firmer knock sounded at the hall door. He was broken out of his reverie and turned away from the changing room door. He walked out into the hallway, then silently slipped out the back door.


	5. Sherlock

"Is that what they told you, Lestrade? Asphyxiation? What am I saying, of _course_ that's what they told you. Let me guess, _Anderson_ again? Doesn't he work on crime scene analysis? What the hell is he doing determining cause of death? And what the hell are _you_ doing listening to him?" His coat swirled behind him as he turned away. "I'm surrounded by idiots!" He kneeled down to examine the body again as Lestrade sighed behind him.

"Been having a rough few months, eh, Sherlock? You seemed to have calmed down a bit last year. What happened?"

Sherlock actually growled. "Shut up, Lestrade. Don't you have some investigating to do? Or are you so inept, you have to leave everything to me?" He looked back over his shoulder and glared at him.

Lestrade sighed again and walked back to his team, standing on the pavement off to the side a few feet away. It was late at night and most of the streets and walkways were clear of pedestrians. If the late night hadn't been enough to clear people away, the poor weather conditions were. It was frightfully cold, and the wind blew through the streets, harsh and unforgiving. Clouds formed dark and heavy overhead, and the threat of rain loomed over the city. The officers in Lestrade's team shifted from foot to foot, anxious to get a move on before the skies cracked open and the rains fell. They watched Sherlock as he twirled around the body, stooping low to examine one thing or another through his magnifying lens. Finally, he stood up and faced Lestrade accusingly. "Asphyxiation, Lestrade. Yes, obviously." His voice was full of scorn and derision as he walked away from the body, towards the main road, certain that Lestrade would follow him. "Unless, of course one actually _observed_ the body, in which case, asphyxiation becomes an asinine guess based on nothing more than the briefest of glances from a trumped up, imagineless, little _twat_." He stopped by the main road and raised his arm to flag down a cab.

"Alright, Sherlock, I'm used to your moods by now, so you can save the insults for later. Just tell me, what have you seen that we missed?"

Sherlock snarled and spun around to face Lestrade. "You mean apart from everything? Alright, Lestrade, how about the fact that the victim, although only being 19 years old, showed multiple signs of being a drug user; track marks up and down her arms, several, and not just recent, some old - very old. That's not accounting for the state of her skin and eyes."

"Yes, Sherlock, we saw those, but how...?"

"Do give us a moment, Lestrade, you did ask for everything, which does take some little time to describe."

Lestrade sighed and waved him on, but Sherlock didn't wait before continuing anyway.

"Then, there's the state of her clothes; dirty, torn, ill-fitting - clearly these were not meant for her and she doesn't have a chance to clean them often, suggesting she lives on the streets. 'But, Sherlock!' you gasp astounded, 'Couldn't she have just worn some dirty clothes the day she was murdered?'" Sherlock mimicked Lestrade in a high-pitched voice. "Kudos to you for arriving at the fact that she was murdered, although, no, wait, nevermind, _I'm_ the one who told you as much."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and Sherlock continued.

"No, she didn't 'just put them on' as you so _helpfully_ suggested - look at her hair, her face, her hands, her fingernails, her feet. She had been living on the streets for months now, due no doubt to her increasing drug habit. Difficult to maintain any sort of respectable career with a drug addiction - trust me, Lestrade, I know." He sneered at Lestrade, who crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. "So, yes, obviously, she was living on the streets. Someone this dependent, with this much experience with drugs is not going to asphyxiate on their own vomit. Plus, there is the added fact that she is Russian. 'Russian?!' you exclaim amazed, 'What does that have to do with anything?' It means she had a high tolerance for chemicals and would not have succumbed to them quite so easily. And, no, that's not a stereotype, that's a documented fact. 'Dear me, Sherlock,' your ignorance abounds, 'how on Earth did you know she was Russian?' That part's simple, all you needed to do was open your eyes and you would have seen the tattoo on her arm; 'Poka my ne vstretimsya snova,' and you might say, 'Oh, but people get foreign words tattooed on themselves all the time!' Yes, they do -  _stupid_ people - but if you had looked, you'd have also seen in the bag she carried, she had multiple papers, clearly hand-written doodles during her down times, full of insipid song lyrics, 'Ya prosto khochu, chtoby kto-to lyubit. Pozhaluysta, ya mogu nayti kogo-to lyubit?'--"

"Sergei?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, mouth clamped shut. For a few moments, he continued looking at Lestrade, eyes wide, who was looking back at him expectantly. He turned slowly round to where a well-known voice had called out his alias from three months ago.

"Sher--?" Lestrade started to ask, but Sherlock threw a hand up quickly to stop him.

"Oh my god, Sergei! It's really you!" In the middle of the road, about twelve feet away, but quickly closing the distance, John Watson beamed a great smile and raised an arm in greeting.

As John walked closer, Sherlock took a few steps away from Lestrade, distancing himself as much as he could and replied in his Eastern European accent, "John! It so good I see you! You do well, yes?" At Lestrade's huff of confusion, Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder and gently shook his head 'no.'

John stopped within a few feet of Sherlock and smiled wider. "I'm doing as well as I can, considering I don't have your magic fingers to help me relax anymore."

Lestrade snorted and gasped out, "What?!"

Sherlock turned and glared at him once more as John looked at Lestrade, slightly confused. "I'm sorry, Sergei, I didn't mean to intrude if you were out with someone."

Sherlock turned back around, quickly. "No, no! No problem!"

"It's just, I can go if you're on a date..."

Lestrade laughed. "Date?!"

"No! This no date. This no date - I promise, you are fine." Sherlock held up his hands imploringly.

"It's just, you asked me out those two times, so I just thought... you know?"

"What the hell is going on?" Lestrade laughed again.

Sherlock glared at Lestrade once more and barked out in his accent, "You wait there." He pointed a few feet down the pavement. "I talk to John, I come back."

Lestrade, still laughing, held up his hands in mock surrender and backed down the pavement.

Sherlock, slightly scowling, took John by the elbow and walked him a bit further down the pavement in the other direction.

"Really, Sergei, I just stopped by to say 'hi.' It isn't worth interrupting anything."

Sherlock stopped when they were an adequate distance away and shook his head. "No, it fine. It fine! Lestrade, he is friend, is all. _Stupid_ ," he glared in Lestrade's direction, who offered him a big smile and two silent thumbs-up, "but friend." He turned back to John and narrowed his eyes as he really took him in. He hadn't been sleeping well, that was obvious by the dark circles and lines under his eyes that hadn't been there three months ago. His shoulders also seemed more tense than they had been when he left the Zen and his hand trembled slightly suggesting a withdrawal from some kind of stimulant, but Sherlock couldn't quite lay his finger on which one.

John shuffled a bit from foot to foot under Sherlock's searching gaze. "You know, I did come back."

He was startled out of his observations. "Sorry? I no understand."

John smiled grimly. "To the Zen, you know? For a massage. I thought, 'Fuck it, I deserve this.' and went back to schedule another appointment with you about four days after I left last time. Spoke to the receptionist, Patricia, I think? She said you had just walked out, that day. Hadn't been back in since."

Sherlock just stared at him, unsure what to say.

John held his gaze for a few moments before looking away. "Not sure where I was trying to go with that - just felt you should know that I did try to come see you again. I wanted to call to make sure you were alright, but Patricia said the number you left at the office couldn't be reached and the address you left was vacant." John looked back up.

Sherlock just stood there, speechless, watching John.

"Christ, Sergei, it wasn't _that_ big of a deal, was it? You didn't pack up shop, quit, and move out just because I wouldn't see you, did you? She said you walked out right after our session!" His eyes pleaded with Sherlock.

"No. No, I.. I had other job." Sherlock' words fumbled over each other. "Other job - it, it pay more. Pay more wage."

John frowned at him, disbelieving. "Then why didn't you tell me before I left? I could have done without looking like a fool, you know? And that still doesn't explain why your flat was empty or why no one could reach you on your mobile."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, grasping for something to say.

John exploded a bit. "Jesus, Sergei!" He whipped his head up to look at the sky as his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked back down at Sherlock, eyes pleading. "I thought you had done yourself in! My god! You hear about this sort of thing happening on the news, and I thought, 'There you go, John, you'll see Sergei up there next.'"

Sherlock frowned, confused. "I no understand."

"Gah! I thought I had killed you Sergei! It was so obvious that you liked me, even if you hadn't asked me out those two times..."

Sherlock shook his head and tried to interject. "No, no..."

John kept talking. "...and then, after telling you that I didn't think it'd be a good idea to see you again, you up and left without a trace at all! You just... vanished! Even the goddamn secretary asked me what happened at our last appointment! She thought I had driven you away, and I believed her!" John huffed out a strained laugh as he looked up at the sky again and ran his hand through his hair. Sherlock's eyes followed the trail of his fingers before turning back to John's face, now looking at the ground as he continued. "And then, I didn't see you for three months. I tried to find you, just to make sure you were okay. I asked around your old flat, but none of your neighbors knew who you were." John looked up at Sherlock. "And I thought _I_ had no friends."

Sherlock smiled unconsciously.

"It sounds a bit stalkerish now, but I looked you up on the internet, tried to find you in the white pages - I even asked the people at the Zen if they could help me find you - until the manager asked me to leave."

A full-fledged grin broke out over Sherlock's face.

John laughed, relieved, at the sight of it. "I'm just-" he sighed deeply, "SO glad you're alright." He held out his hand for Sherlock to shake.

Sherlock took it slowly and smiled warmly at John. "Yes, John." His accent rumbled deep in his throat. "Yes, John. I am fine. I am work, is all. I very busy with job." He swung his arm behind him to indicate Lestrade, who, still standing on the pavement about twenty feet away was animatedly speaking with someone on his mobile.

John looked over Sherlock's shoulder and realisation dawned on him. "Oh! So that's a business partner of yours?"

Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

John looked up. "Can I meet him?"

Sherlock's face fell. "Um..."

John started backtracking. "I mean, it's fine, if you don't want me to. It's just, you kept asking to meet me outside of the Zen, so I just thought..."

Sherlock hurried to ease John's doubts. "Yes! No, is fine! Is fine, you meet him. Lestrade. Lestrade is good friend." He looked back worriedly at Lestrade, clearly ending his call. "He is good friend." He repeated quieter.

John nodded, unsure, and the two made their way back to Lestrade, who stood there, waiting.

Lestrade's eyebrows raised as he watched John approach as well. "Everything alright then?" He glanced at Sherlock.

"Yes, is fine. Is fine." Sherlock's eyes pleaded with Lestrade as Lestrade's eyebrows pinched together in confusion. "This is friend, John Watson." Sherlock gestured to John. "John, this is work friend, Lestrade." He waved a hand in front of Lestrade.

John held out a hand and smiled. "Lestrade? What, just one name? Like Cher?"

Lestrade shook John's hand and turned to Sherlock. "Yeah, what's with that? What about my first name, Sher--"

"Ah! No is important! Work friend! Work friend only! Do not get first name for work friend!" Sherlock cut him off.

"Ah, but _John_ ," Lestrade emphasized, "John must not be a work friend then, eh?" He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who glared back at him.

John's eyes shifted between the two of them before clearing his throat. "Well, um, actually, we did meet at work. Well, that is to say, _his_ work. I was just following therapist's orders."

Lestrade looked back at John and nodded. "Met the genius while he worked, did you? And you still stuck around? Must have met him earlier last year then." Lestrade laughed and glanced at Sherlock, as though sharing a private joke. Sherlock just continued glaring at him.

Shocked, John replied, "Well, yes, actually, I did."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose as he turned back to John. "Did you now? Had you been working with him? It's just, he was much calmer last year, and had solved a record-breaking number of cases--"

"Yes, Lestrade! Lestrade is funny man! Ha, ha!" Sherlock barked out as John looked at Lestrade confused.

"Um, I don't think so? I wouldn't say I did anything. I mostly just sat there - well, _laid_ there. He did most of the work."

Lestrade's eyes widened and he turned, speechless, to Sherlock, who grimaced and gently shook his head.

"I'm not really sure what you mean by cases though. Unless you mean clients, in which case, yes, he was fairly booked, quite often." John continued confused.

Lestrade's face cleared. "Right; clients, cases, you know, whatever he's calling them nowadays. Fairly booked, eh?" He turned to Sherlock. "Well, thanks for squeezing us in when you could. Although," he laughed, "it sounds like you were squeezing in quite a lot, eh?"

Sherlock looked up to the sky and sighed.

"Oh! So, you two have been working together for awhile now?"

Lestrade furrowed his brow together again and looked back at John. "Yeah, of course. We've been working together, what," he turned to Sherlock, "four years now?"

"Five."

Lestrade broke out in a grin. "Oh yeah, that's right." He turned back to John. "Five years now."

Confused, John looked to Sherlock. "Five years? Why didn't you ever mention that you had another job, Sergei? This whole time, I thought you only worked at the Zen--"

"Yes! No is important! One job, two job. No matter!"

"Why do you keep calling him 'Sergei'?" Lestrade turned to John.

"Because... that's his name?"

"Ah! Look at sky! Sky is rain! Lestrade, rain fall now. You go back, I talk later." Sherlock breathed out quickly and pointed down the side road.

Lestrade shook his head looking at John, brows knitted together as John glanced down the side road to where Sherlock was pointing.

It wasn't until then that John noticed the red and blue alternating lights flashing out from the mouth of the road. "Sergei?" He slowly turned to Sherlock. "What's going on?"

Sherlock looked at him helplessly and raised his hands pleadingly.

John's face hardened as he turned to Lestrade and demanded, "Who is this man?"

Lestrade's eyes shifted to Sherlock for a moment, whose gaze was still fixed upon John's face, before turning back to John. "Um, he's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sherlock Holmes?" John repeated, addressing Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded. "Um, yes. He's a private detective..."

" _Consulting_ detective." Sherlock clarified soft but sure in his normal, deep, baritone voice.

John shot a glare at him before turning to Lestrade once more. "So, he's not Sergei Kuznetsov?"

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. "Um, not that I've ever known..." He turned a confused eye to Sherlock, who was still watching John.

John pursed his lips together and nodded resolutely. "Alright. That's good to know." He turned his hard eyes to Sherlock. "See you around then, _Sherlock_." He bit out.  
  
Sherlock flinched at the sound of his name.

John shoved his hands in his pockets and backed up a few steps. "Or, I guess maybe, it _would_ be better if I didn't." He glared straight into Sherlock's eyes before turning and walking away.

Sherlock watched him walk down the pavement until he could no longer see him.

Lestrade stood silently beside him and only spoke when John was completely out of sight. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm not really sure what just happened, but I think I understand now why you've been such an arse the past few months."

"Botulin," Sherlock replied, monotone.

"Sorry?"

"The 19 year old victim was murdered using botulin. The toxin was introduced into her system via her drug of choice, heroin. Look for the drug dealer. Chances are high he's the one who tampered with her supply." Sherlock's eyes never left the road John turned down.

"Right. Drug dealer, cheers." Lestrade stopped and watched Sherlock for a moment. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Of course." Sherlock tore his eyes away, glancing at Lestrade for a moment before looking down at the ground. "I have more important things to be doing right now." He started off down the pavement in the opposite direction of John.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called after him.

"The interesting part is over, Lestrade. This whole case was barely a two. Call me up when you have something really difficult; otherwise, don't bother!" Hands deeply embedded in his coat pockets, Sherlock continued walking down the darkened street as the first splatters of rain fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Google Translate for the Russian phrases because I don't know a lick of Russian, myself. So I apologize if any of them are incorrect. Also, I originally wanted to leave the Russian song lyrics as they are as a sort of "Easter egg," but when I tried reverse Google Translating the lyrics, I couldn't find the English equivalent, so just letting you all know (for the irony of it all), the lyrics are: "I just want somebody to love. Please, can I find somebody to love?"


	6. Compulsion

The Science of **Deduction**  
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SH  
What's gotten into the criminal classes these days? I solved one, frankly simplistic and boring, murder involving botulin-laced heroin and now, three days on, I've yet to find another case. It's a good job I'm not a criminal, although days like this really make me wish I were.

  
↪️ theimprobableone  
if you became a criminal, I'd be solving your cases!

  
↪️ Anonymous  
You're pretty full of yourself, aren't you?  
↪️ theimprobableone  
he just knows he's a genius! it must be hard living around so many idiots all the time!

  
↪️ John Watson  
So, this is what you really do then? Solve crimes? And here, I thought all those cases were just you interested in the current news.  
↪️ SH  
John! Just let me explain, please, would you do that?  
↪️ theimprobableone  
how could you not know that this is what Sherlock Holmes does?

  
↪️ SH  
John, would you message me so I can explain?

 

 

 

 

 

  
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The Step-Father  
Notes to be added

I was contacted by Mary Sutherland in an attempt to try to find her fiancé, Hosmer Angel. The case couldn't even be classified as a three, but I was desperately bored and looking for a way to divert my attention, so I accepted.

Background: Mary Sutherland is 35 and currently lives with her mother and step-father. Her biological father died when she was 15, and when he passed on, he left her a large inheritance to be transferred to her upon her marriage. Sutherland's mother met and married her step-father, James Windibank, very soon after her father's death. Windibank, although being only five years older, keeps Sutherland on a very tight leash. Three weeks ago, when Windibank travelled out of town for business, she went out and met Angel. The two started a correspondence and were soon to be married. The day of the wedding, Angel asked her to promise to remain faithful to him regardless of anything that might happen. Sutherland agreed and she and her mother watched Angel get into a cab to ride to the church, while they proceeded to take the following one. However, once they arrived, Angel's cab was empty. The cabbie said Angel was not in the back of the cab when she pulled up to the church and she could not provide any information as to where Angel had gone.

Sutherland suspects foul-play. I do as well, but not along the same lines as Sutherland.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
Really? Are you serious? 'The Step-Father'? First of all, what kind of title is that? And second of all, how is this a case in the first place? You're missing the most obvious fact.  
↪️ SH  
The title is just a means for me to be able to look up my case notes quickly. In this one, the step-father stuck out in my mind, so I titled it as such. It doesn't have to be imaginative. And while I sincerely doubt I have missed any facts, much less obvious ones, please enlighten me as to what I am supposed to have missed?  
↪️ John Watson  
He's a man.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Update: Very obvious fact I missed: Angel is a man. Thank you, John, for your contribution.

Update: Sutherland showed me the letters Angel sent to her. All were typed - even the signatures.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
He sent her typed letters? That's a bit odd, why wouldn't he just email them?  
↪️ SH  
Why indeed, John?  
↪️ theimprobableone  
that's easy! he hand delivered them to add a bit of romantic flair to it. email's just too impersonal.  
↪️ John Watson  
If that were the case, you'd think he'd write them out, though.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Notes to be added

Update: Description of Angel: Wild, slightly unkempt hair, dark glasses due to cataracts, quiet, raspy voice, and pronounced limp whilst walking. Sutherland stated that Windibank did not approve of Angel, so they only ever met when Windibank went out of town for business, and even then, always in crowded, low-lit places such as the theatre or pub.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
Yeah, okay, this Angel fellow really sounds like a winner. I'm a bit more surprised that Sutherland wasn't the one who skipped out the night of the wedding, but I guess she wouldn't, would she?  
↪️ Anonymous  
Oh my god, you're such a jackass.  
↪️ SH  
What do you mean, John? Why wouldn't she?  
↪️ John Watson  
Well, you said she had a large inheritance waiting for her when she got married. She's 30-something and still lives with her mother? Bet that's not settling well with her.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Case Closed

Summary: Sutherland was getting tired of staying at home, under her step-father's thumb and completely dependent upon him and her mother. She wanted to get out and live her own life but was never awarded that courtesy either by her mother or her step-father, who were both reaping in the interest Sutherland earned from her inheritance from her father. Had she left, the household income would have been cut in half. Therefore, Windibank arranged an out of town business trip for himself, making sure to inform Sutherland that he would be gone. He then dressed up as Hosmer Angel and preceded to woo Sutherland with the help of her mother. He arranged it so Sutherland would never consider dating another man and then left her at the church, unsure as to whether Angel was alive or dead. Any and all attempts to clear up the matter with Sutherland have been met with resistance and willful ignorance and all threats to Windibank are legally unsound.

I consider this case solved, but unsuccessful.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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theimprobableone  
wow Sherlock! you did it again!

John Watson  
Well, that's an unsatisfactory conclusion. What? The bastard just gets away with it?  
↪️ SH  
There was nothing I could do, John. Sutherland wouldn't listen to reason and there's no law against going around under a false identity.  
↪️ John Watson  
Oh, well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?  
↪️ SH  
John, I apologised. I asked you to let me explain. What more do you want?

 

 

 

 

 

  
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theimprobableone  
hey Sherlock. haven't seen you update in awhile. hope everything's okay. looking forward to the next case.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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theimprobableone  
been kind of boring around here. just waiting for an update.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The Science of **Deduction**  
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theimprobableone  
haven't seen you on the news or anything recently. it's been about two weeks now. any chance of updating soon?

John Watson  
Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Just write something already. This poor person is about to have a breakdown.  
↪️ SH  
Fine. Working on a new case. Will update with details later.  
↪️ theimprobableone  
I am not about to have a breakdown! and Sherlock! I'm SO excited to see you on here again! looking forward to the case!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Brother Mycroft was kind enough to stop by yesterday. Seems a neighbor of his ran into a bit of trouble and my dear brother wanted me to take a look at the case. Mycroft easily could have done so himself, but he does so hate legwork. Having nothing better on, I agreed.

Background: Joseph Melas is a freelance interpreter for hire. He was approached at his home two nights ago by Harold Latimer, who wished to retain his services regarding an urgent Greek business deal. He was offered an exorbitant wage, so he agreed to accompany Latimer. Once in the cab, Melas noticed that the windows were completely blacked out. He knew nothing of where they were going, only that it seemed to take them about an hour to get there. When they arrived at their destination, Melas was pushed inside so quickly, he was unable to see the surrounding environment, much less, the building he was being pushed into. He was escorted into a dimly lit room where an emaciated, unkempt man sat with large sticking plasters covering his face and mouth. Melas was directed to ask the man questions in Greek and the man was directed to write his responses down. After questioning the man for some time, Melas discovered that neither of the captors understood Greek, so he preceded to add his own questions at the end. He discovered that the man's name was Kratides and that he had been held prisoner and starved for the past two weeks. The captors had Melas ask Kratides to sign some papers, but Kratides continuously refused. As the second hour of questioning came to an end, a woman entered the room and cried out "Paul," to which Kratides ripped off the sticking plaster from his mouth and replied, "Sophy." Latimer pushed the woman out of the room, while the other captor struck Kratides to prevent him from following her. Once the woman was locked out of the room, Latimer returned to Melas and threatened him, saying that he would be a dead man if he told anyone what happened. Melas was thrust into the cab waiting outside, and after an hour's drive, was pushed out of the cab near Clapham Junction, far from his home. He took the last train to Victoria and appealed to brother Mycroft at the Diogenes club for assistance.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
Are you kidding me? Sherlock and Mycroft? What the hell kind of parents did you have? Sergei was bad, but at least explainable with that accent of yours. What excuse is there for Sherlock and Mycroft?  
↪️ theimprobableone  
like John is any better!  
↪️ SH  
A unique name for a unique brain, John.  
↪️ John Watson  
Oh, and Mycroft's unique too, is he?  
↪️ SH  
Obviously. Of the two of us, Mycroft's skills of observation and deduction far exceed my own.  
↪️ John Watson  
Well, that's hard to believe.  
↪️ SH  
I would never admit to him as such; however, so don't go spreading it around.  
↪️ John Watson  
You do realise you just wrote it out on a public website, right? Your own public website?

 

 

 

 

 

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Update: Appealing to the British and Greek public for any information regarding a Paul Kratides or a woman named Sophy associated with him through social media.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
Are you sure that's the best thing to do? What if the captors see it?  
↪️ Anonymous  
Yeah, that was a pretty piss-poor move.  
↪️ theimprobableone  
Sherlock knows what he's doing!

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Update: Damn this legal process! A man is being done to death!

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
Fuck the legal process, Sherlock! If you know where Kratides is, go get him!  
↪️ Anonymous  
You can't just "fuck the legal process." That's how anarchy begins.  
↪️ John Watson  
There's a man dying right now and you're concerned about political ramifications?   
↪️ theimprobableone  
Sherlock will save him - he's Sherlock!

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Case Closed

Summary: I received a response from a J. Davenport who stated that he knew Sophy Kratides and could tell me that she was currently living at the Myrtles in Beckenham. I stopped by Melas' house on my way to Scotland Yard, but discovered through his landlord that Latimer had already been by to collect him. I immediately left for Scotland Yard to gain Lestrade's assistance, but had to wait over an hour before we could get a proper warrant. By the time we reached Beckenham, Latimer, his accomplice, and Sophy Kratides had flown. We entered the house and discovered Melas and Paul Kradites were locked in a room being gassed via charcoal fumes. We pulled them out of the room and did what we could to administer first aid. Melas eventually regained consciousness, but Paul Kradites did not.

Latimer, the accomplice, and Sophy Kratides have not been apprehended. I am certain that we will hear news of them from the continent before the month is over.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
He died. Damn it, Sherlock! You knew where he was. You pulled Melas out in time. What happened with Paul Kratides?  
↪️ SH  
Lestrade insisted that we wait for the warrant to go through. What was I to do, John? Go after two, possibly three, dangerous people on my own? Had I a partner or medical professional with me, chances are Paul Kradites might still be alive, but I didn't. I did what I could, John. I'm only one man.


	7. Watershed

To: sh@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: johnwatson@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Subject: Unacceptable

Sherlock,

The conclusion of that last case was unacceptable. I refuse to sit here, doing nothing, when there are lives at stake. This is the number to my mobile: 07700 900573. You call me anytime - ANYTIME you need back-up, or a partner, or a medical professional, or whatever else you conveniently just so happen to need. These people clearly depend on you, and I won't have you letting them down.

John

 

 

 

 

 

  
To: johnwatson@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: sh@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Subject: Re: Unacceptable

John,

I accept your mobile number and offers of assistance, but disagree with your statement that I am letting anyone down. I am not a hero, John - I never have been.

SH

 

 

 

 

 

  
**07700 900760  
Tue, Feb 26, 3:58 AM**

The flat is burning.

What? Who is this?

Well, not all of the flat, just part of it.

This is Sherlock Holmes. I thought that  
would be obvious.

Sherlock? What the fuck? Why are you  
texting me about your flat burning down?

You told me to text you when I required  
assistance. I figured a burning flat would  
fall under that category.

Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Stop texting me  
and call the fire department!

**Tue, Feb 26, 4:07 AM**

Sherlock? Have you called the fire  
department yet? Are they on their way?

No, don't be silly, John, of course I  
haven't called the fire department. I  
just put it out with the fire extinguisher.

You put it out with a fire extinguisher?

I believe that is what I just typed, John.

Why the hell would you text me and tell  
me that there was a fire in your flat and  
that you required assistance if you didn't  
actually need assistance?

**Tues, Feb 26, 4:12 AM**

Sherlock?

**Tues, Feb 26, 4:26 AM**

Sherlock!

**Tues, Feb 26, 4:39 AM**

I hope you realise what a bastard  
you are.

 

 

 

 

 

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I had been out of the flat for some time this past Thursday, when, upon my return, I discovered that a client had stopped by during my absence. Needing some extra cash to pay the landlord for a minor incident earlier in the week, I decided to wait for Mr. Munro to return, which he did roughly two hours later. Munro and I agreed to a price that would stop the landlord from evicting me, then I began working on the case straight away.

Background: Grant Munro met his wife Effie two years ago. She had just immigrated from America after her previous husband and daughter were killed in a house fire. Since that time, Munro claims his wife had been religiously devoted to him, always truthful and open, and he had no reasons to doubt anything she said or did. However, he states that three months ago, he noticed a large sum withdrawn from their joint bank account. When he questioned her about it, she stated that she had just done some shopping and didn't realize she had spent so much. When he questioned her about her purchases, she was hesitant to provide details or to show him what she bought. She begged him to drop the conversation and swore that she would not overspend again. He reluctantly complied, but remained suspicious of her and discreetly kept tabs on her whereabouts. He stated that there were multiple nights when his wife got out of bed, only to return hours later. After a few weeks of this, Munro decided to follow her and waited until she got up and out of the room before doing so. She led him to a neighboring house before she realized that she was being followed and turned around to confront him. He states that she looked terrified and pleaded with him to return home. He set out to speak with the owner of the house, but she successfully dissuaded him from doing so. The next day, however, he went to the house and was greeted by an old, hard-looking, German woman who resolutely denied that anyone had been by the house. Munro tried to gain admittance, but was pushed back and locked out of the house by the German woman. He glanced up at the first floor window and saw a figure looking back at him. The figure quickly jerked away, but he clearly saw that it's face was mottled and sickly-looking and it's features were horribly disfigured. He questioned his wife about the figure he saw, but she would say nothing, except to beg him to let the matter drop. He stated that he could do no such thing and would not stop investigating until he got to the bottom of it.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
Seriously? A wife goes cheating on her husband and you think it's a case? What? Was the fire damage that extensive then?  
↪️ theimprobableone  
why are you even on this website if you don't want to read about Sherlock's cases?  
↪️ SH  
Yes, actually. My current landlord is quite angry with me. I fear I may need to look for other lodgings.  
↪️ John Watson  
Your landlord is that upset over a fire? Did you start it or something?  
↪️ SH  
Not purposefully, I can assure you.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Update: Verified Munro's story - Effie did immigrate here from South Carolina two years ago. Munro drove the cab that took her from the airport to her hotel. Munro's previous co-workers state that he talked about her constantly and they say that she brought him lunch everyday. They seem to verify that the two were very happy together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**John Watson  
Sat, Mar 2, 10:32 AM**

Ok, I'm dying to know about this fire.

Oh, hello, John. I really am quite  
busy at the moment.

Yes, I know, the cheating wife. There.  
I've solved it. Tell me about this fire.

No, John, the wife is obviously not  
cheating.

How can you know that?

When would she have gotten the  
chance? Munro met her at the  
airport when she arrived and he  
stated that they had been practically  
inseparable between then and her  
taking the large sum of money from  
their account. Eyewitness accounts  
confirm that.

She must have found time. People  
do it all the time.

No, John. I keep telling you, she was  
never alone after meeting Munro.

Well, first, that sounds like a very  
unhealthy relationship.

I had no idea your medical studies  
were rooted in couples therapy.

Second, maybe she knew him from before.

Oh, that's hilarious.

**Sat, Mar 2, 7:23 PM**

Damn it, Sherlock, you never did tell me  
about the fire.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Update: Previous husband's death has been verified.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Sat, Mar 2, 11:47 PM**

I just had a thought, Sherlock, what  
if it's the husband's brother, or some  
other affair she previously had from  
America?

John, you astound me.

What? I'm right?

No, you couldn't be further from  
the truth, but the fact that you had  
a thought really is, truly amazing.

Oh, okay. I'm an idiot for not solving  
this seemingly inconsequential case,  
but you're not an idiot for setting your  
own flat on fire. Which I'm still waiting  
to hear about, by the way.

In good time, John. I've an  
inconsequential case to solve first.  
Remember, my continual residence  
at my current flat is at stake here.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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Case Closed

Summary: Effie Munro had been married back in America to a lawyer named John Hebron who was confirmed dead via a house fire two years ago. All witness statements confirm that Effie doted on her current husband, Grant Munro. This led me to believe that Effie's late night liaisons were, therefore, not of a romantic nature. If romance was not involved, what else might cause a loving wife to purposefully invite suspicion from her husband? Shame. Effie Munro feared that her husband would no longer love her if he knew about the figure in the neighboring house. Who could be so important to a woman that she would go to any lengths to protect them? A child, obviously. After doing some research, I discovered that John Hebron died in the house fire, but his daughter, Lucy Hebron, did not. Knowing this, I invited Munro to enter the house with me. Effie attempted to bar our entrance, but Munro nudged her aside, determined to see who was in the first floor room. The old, German woman shouted for us to leave, but Munro and I each put a shoulder to the door and forced it open. Inside, sat upon the bed, was a young girl, about 7 years old. Her face and arms were discolored and horribly scarred due to the fire and resulting skin grafts. Effie ran into the room and gathered her daughter into her arms. She stated that after the fire, the doctors weren't sure if Lucy would survive or not. She needed the best medical care to revive her and attempt to undo the physical scarring caused by the fire. Effie had received a job offer in London that would have allowed her to continue paying for Lucy's medical treatments. She decided to leave her daughter in the care of Mrs. Weinstein, a close family friend, while she earned enough money to pay for Lucy's medical bills. Effie stated that she hadn't intended on meeting and falling in love with Munro. She then stated that she received regular updates on her daughter over email and text, but could not hold back the longing she felt to have her daughter with her. She eventually decided to bring her over once she was fit enough to travel and have her lodge in the neighboring house - close enough to visit. When questioned why she didn't let Munro know any of this, she stated that she thought he would cease to love her if he knew that her daughter from a previous marriage had not only survived the fire, but also became scarred and disfigured because of it. Munro stated that he would never turn Effie or her daughter away, and preceded to invite both Lucy and Mrs. Weinstein to stay with them and live in their house.

I consider this case successfully closed.

 

 

 

 

 

  
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John Watson  
Well, I feel like a right arse now.

theimprobableone  
this one was a bit touchy-feely, eh, Sherlock?

 

 

 

 

 

  
**Sherlock Holmes  
Sun, Mar 3, 5:39 PM**

Dinner? I seem to be free now to  
explain everything regarding that  
fire you're dying to know about.

Yeah. Yeah, sounds good - fine.

John? Are you alright? I can just  
tell you about it now if you'd rather.

No. Dinner's fine.

Not your flat though.

Obviously. I know a Thai place off  
Baker Street. I got the owner off an  
assault charge. She owes me a favour.  
I'll text you the address.

Right. I'll see you in about 30  
minutes then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, wow guys. I literally just posted this yesterday and have already gotten hits and kudos and comments... Just... Wow. Thanks. I really didn't expect anyone to read it just yet. I'll try to write more as quickly as I can, but, you know, real life obligations and all that.
> 
> Thanks again, everyone. I'm honestly dumbfounded right now.


	8. Amity

Sherlock scanned the tiny restaurant quickly as soon as he walked through the door; no sign of John. Well, he _was_ eight minutes early - no reason John should be there just yet. He took off his jacket and hung it up on a peg near the door before taking a seat near the window and waving away the waitress that approached him with the flick of his wrist, exuding an air of indifference and nonchalance. Although, if he were being honest with himself, inside, his nerves were firing off like mad. It had been months since he had last seen John in person. That fateful night at the crime scene stuck out in his mind like a jagged edge defying to be smoothed. Every time his mobile lit up with another message from "John Watson," he saw the look of anger and distrust on John's face as he turned and walked away. Sherlock often spoke with pride about his photographic memory - how could he not? It had aided him many times in solving his cases - but recently, he had begun to despise the wretched thing. He spent countless hours trying to replace that vision with _literally anything_ _else_ , but found that John's disapproving face had been seared into his hard drive. He needed this night - if for no other reason than to just finally remove that parting image of John's disappointment from his brain.

As the bell over the entrance rang out, Sherlock's head casually glanced towards the door while his eyes worked overtime to savour this first glimpse of John, post horrendous-crime-scene-farewell. In the split second between John hanging up his jacket and spotting Sherlock, Sherlock could see a million little details that meant nothing when attached to anyone else, but meant everything when attached to John. He was sleeping better, for one; dark circles and lines under his eyes had faded away. His eyes were bright and focused, so, for the moment at least, he was mildly content and engaged. His fingers did have a slight tremor, but, going by the faint sheen over his brow and his unconscious fidgeting, it appeared as though it was more due to nerves than anything else. His overall physique appeared to have remained unchanged; his muscle tone slightly more defined than the average Londoner. Although, Sherlock _hadn't_ seen him without his clothes for nearly five months, and clothes did hide an awful lot, so, really, he couldn't be 100% certain that his muscle tone _had_ remained unchanged. Determining the answer to this query stood out as being extremely important in Sherlock's mind, but he wasn't quite sure why. As he tried to work out the implications of muscle tone and usefulness to the work, John spotted him and raised a hand in greeting before walking over to the table.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"John. Nice of you to come."

"Yeah, well, you know. Someone tells me they're not purposefully burning their flat down at 4:00 in the morning, I start to get curious."

Sherlock smiled at him as the waitress appeared.

"Hello, my name is Samantha. I'll be taking care of you both tonight. First, can I get you something to drink?"

"Um, yes, thank you. I'll have a Guiness." John turned expectantly to Sherlock.

"A glass of your 2011 Chateau."

"Certainly. Do you both need a moment to look over the menu?"

"That would be lovely, thank you." John smiled up at her.

Samantha smiled back and took her leave.

"An experiment."

John turned back. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock was watching him closely. "The fire, it was an experiment. I was writing up a monograph on the subtle differences of various types of tobacco ash when my flat caught fire."

John smirked, grabbed the menu off the table, and began perusing through it. "Pressing need for that, is there?"

"You'd be surprised how many of my cases have been solved based on nothing more than my knowledge of the difference between a Lambert and Butler and a Benson and Hedges."

John looked up at him incredulously over his menu. "You're just taking the piss, aren't you?"

"Certainly not."

John studied his face for a moment before nodding to the table. "Do you already know what you want to eat?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands, folded atop the menu resting upon the table, before looking back up at John. "I don't eat while I'm working. Digestion slows me down."

John lowered his menu and stared at him. "You - you don't eat because digestion slows you down?" He frowned. "That - that's insane, Sherlock! Digestion has nothing to do with your mental capabilities."

Sherlock sent him a withering look.

John pointed to the menu on the table. "Eat."

"I'm sorry?"

John's finger and voice never wavered. "I said, 'Eat.' You invited me to dinner, Sherlock. That's what people do at dinner, they eat. If you 'don't eat while working,' I'd gather that you haven't eaten much the past few days, so your body probably needs some nourishment. Plus, what do you mean you're working? You just solved the Munro case."

"As amazing as it may seem to your ordinary brain, I am quite capable of working on multiple cases at once, and it just so happens that I--"

"No." John put his menu completely down on the table and leaned back, crossing his arms.

"No?"

"No. I refuse to listen to anymore until you order something and actually eat it. My god, Sherlock! Eating is a biological imperative! How you managed to survive this long is a goddamn mystery."

Sherlock regarded him quietly, working his jaw over a few times, before picking up the menu and glancing over it.

"Thank you," John exhaled as he looked over his own menu.

Before long, Samantha returned to deposit their drinks and take their order. John forced Sherlock to order first before requesting the pad choi sum for himself.

"An experiment involving tobacco ash," John remarked, taking a drink as Samantha walked away. "What happened? Did you fall asleep while smoking?"

"Of course not, John. It would be a phenomenal waste of time, smoking them all myself. It would take me months to acquire the accumulation of tobacco ash I would need to write a scientifically sound monograph."

"Yeah, that, and they're absolutely disgusting."

"Well, I never said _that_."

John frowned. "What? You smoke, do you?"

"Only on occasion. It's difficult to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Mostly, I use nicotine patches."

"Not sure how much better those are, but at least you'll breathe easier."

"Ugh. Breathing's boring."

John smirked and watched him for a moment as he drank some more of his Guiness before continuing, "So, you weren't smoking them, how were you getting the ash from the cigarettes? Just burned them with a lighter, did you?"

"I devised a simple mechanism that could stabilize and burn through 10 cigarettes within a minute. I was just finishing round nine, when an unforeseen event forced the mechanism to the floor, dropping the burning cigarettes in the process and causing the papers on the floor to alight in flames. It actually would have made for a good observation on the rapidity of objects to burn once touched by a flame if it hadn't been for the fact that the fire was quickly spreading, seriously compromising the safety and security of the rest of the flat."

John chuckled. "And yet, still, your first reaction was to text me."

"I required assistance."

"You did not. You told me you put it out with the bloody fire extinguisher!"

"Yes, I did recall having one after speaking with you."

John huffed out a laugh. "I'm sure," he muttered jokingly, taking another drink.

Sherlock smiled at him behind his wine glass and said nothing.

"Alright, you lunatic. You occasionally smoke, but mostly use nicotine patches. You run insane experiments in your flat to write papers on subjects of little interest. You solve cases and help Scotland Yard solve crimes. You mock up a CV and pretend to be a Russian masseur. What else?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows together and inclined his head. "I'm not sure what you mean, John."

"Well, what else is there? Do you have midnight, observation parties? Run a "Dear Mariella" column in the Guardian? Have a secret wife and family in Westminster no one knows about?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

"What else is there to know about you?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock replied slowly. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end."

John huffed, "That's surprising," before adding, "The violin, huh? I used to play the clarinet in primary school. Never caught on though."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards.

"I always thought of taking it back up again, but the neighbours do love to complain in that bedsit of mine."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement drinking more wine as Samantha came back to place their meals upon the table. John made some general remarks about the aesthetic appeal of the food and thanked the waitress in that endearing manner of his. Sherlock watched him as he smiled at the waitress and assured her that everything was perfect. He then watched John pick up his silverware and focus upon his plate as the waitress walked away. His overall air of geniality was refreshing to Sherlock. Here was a man who, by his own admission, had very few family or friends, had gone to Afghanistan and been shot in the war, returned home and was currently living in a, clearly miserable, little bedsit doing locum work at a surgery, struggling to make ends meet, and yet, even with all that, he was still polite and friendly with just about everyone Sherlock's seen him interact with thus far. He had been with Sergei after Sherlock broke through all that skepticism and distrust. He had been with Lestrade that fateful night he, seemingly, walked out of Sherlock's life forever. And he had been with their waitress the entire time they'd been there. Sherlock would have guessed that John was just trying to chat her up, but he didn't speak with her or look at her any more than he was required to, so that didn't seem likely. He was just noting, in his mind, the effort John had obviously put into his appearance before coming to dinner and incorporating that into his pulling-the-waitress debate when John piped up.

"Eat, Sherlock. Now."

He became aware of his surroundings and realised that he had been staring at John, while he ate, in silence, fingers steepled together before his face, for approximately five minutes. John hadn't once looked up from his plate that entire time, but he did so at that moment. His eyes caught Sherlock's and gleamed as a smile spread slowly over his face. Sherlock thought that he must be hungry after all because his stomach felt a bit queasy. Nodding to John, he picked up his fork and diverted his attention to his own plate.

They ate in silence, mostly, being interrupted every now and then by Samantha's reassurances that they were alright and didn't need anything, to which John responded that they were fine. Sherlock struggled to understand how, after five months and two fallouts, they could still sit together in comfortable silence. He had never known this before - had never had this with anyone before, although, to be fair, he had never really had a steady acquaintance before. There was Mycroft, and lord knows, no interaction with him could _ever_ be considered _comfortable_. Then there was Lestrade, but Sherlock only ever saw him at crime scenes or his flat when Lestrade would come in requesting assistance. He never saw him outside of the work. There had been others, obviously, Sherlock had engaged with, engagement being something somewhat mandated at the primary and secondary levels; however, he always kept it to a bare minimum and never actively sought anyone out before. He glanced up at John while eating and, after a few moments, John looked up as well, smiled, and held his gaze. He looked down at his half eaten plate as the queasy sensation rolled through his stomach once again. He must need to eat more. How was it that he never realised before how hungry he became during a case? He lifted up another forkful to his mouth.

For the remainder of the meal, the silence was only broken occasionally by a comment or anecdote of John's or by the waitress checking in on them. By the time they received their bill, Sherlock had cleared his entire plate, as well as two glasses of wine. He pulled out his wallet and removed two £20 notes, placing them on the table before returning his wallet to his pocket and standing up.

"Oh! No, Sherlock, you don't need to pay for me," John stated, standing up himself and reaching for his wallet.

Sherlock waved him off and started walking towards the door. "Nonsense, John. I asked you to join me." He grabbed his jacket off the peg and put it on.

John caught up with him, grabbed his jacket as well, and replied sheepishly, "Well, thank you," as they exited the restaurant together.

Night had fallen upon them while they ate and the air was cool and crisp with the promise of spring in the near future. Sherlock turned to address John. "Care for a walk towards Park Road? The cabs are generally more plentiful there."

"Yeah, sure."

They walked side by side; hands thrust deep in their jacket pockets, elbows occasionally bumping.

"I don't usually come down this way," John remarked as they walked along the pavement, passing shops along the way. "The surgery I work at is really close by, I've just never had a need to come down here."

Sherlock nodded and pointed across the street to the Baker Street Station entrance. "Convenient Tube location."

John turned and hummed in affirmation.

They continued walking and passing others in silence.

"Plenty of shops, that's for certain."

"Ah, apparently, Mrs. Hudson is letting out her rooms."

"What?" John glanced up at Sherlock who was looking at a building a few doors down. He directed his gaze to the window and saw a 'to let' sign propped up inside. "Mrs. Hudson? You know her, then?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in affirmation. "Worked on her case a few years ago involving her husband." He stopped before the building, still looking up at the window. "Got himself sentenced to death in Florida," he stated thoughtfully.

John stopped beside him, looking up at the window as well. "Oh, so, you stopped him from being executed?"

Sherlock scoffed and glanced at John. "No. I ensured it," he stated before continuing towards Park Road.

John stood there, watching him walk away for a few moments, before catching up to him. "You... _ensured_ it? What? Are the Hudsons murders or drug dealers or something?"

"The husband was, certainly. Not so sure about the wife, though." Sherlock side-eyed John as they approached Park Road. "Well, John, dinner was very enjoyable. Thank you again for coming."

They came to a stop before the main road. "Sure. Thanks, um, you know, for paying." John waved his hand a bit in the air and cleared his throat.

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Absolutely."

They stood there for a moment, watching each other, as people passed by them.

"Well," Sherlock reached out his hand to John, "I think you can find your way from here, correct?"

John raised his eyebrows and hesitantly shook Sherlock's hand. "You're not riding with me?"

"No," Sherlock replied, still grasping John's hand in a soft, but firm, grip, "I do have some work to be done in this area and must see to it immediately."

"Oh." John's face fell as he let go of Sherlock's hand. "Well, I guess I'll talk with you later then."

Sherlock frowned, inclining his head. "John--?"

John shook his head and held up a hand. "No, it's alright, Sherlock. I'll just talk with you later, yeah?"

Sherlock knew that something was on John's mind, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. "Yes," he replied somewhat hesitantly. "Yes, alright."

With that, John nodded and turned down Park Road to hail a cab.

Sherlock, still confused, watched him walk away. Should he go after John? Talk with him some more? Text him? Call him later? What did ordinary people _do_ in these situations? As he watched John flag down a cab and climb inside, he shook away the questions swirling around his head. Right then. He resolutely turned himself around. Onto business. He marched back down Baker Street, determined - a man on a mission.


	9. Conductivity

Science of **Deduction**  
**Case Files**  
Recently Updated

Red-Headed League  
Notes to be added

Jabez Wilson called in at my flat early this morning with a seemingly inconsequential conundrum. On the surface, the case appeared quite trivial, but underneath, I knew there were more sinister motives at play. Determined to unravel the mystery, I accepted the case.

Background: Wilson is an out-of-shape, middle-aged widow with a shock of bright, red hair. He runs a rather unsuccessful pawn broker's shop in the middle of Marylebone. Three months ago, he was in need of an assistant and hired a man named Vincent Spaulding on the basis that he would work for Wilson for half wages. One month ago, Spaulding showed Wilson an advert in the Daily Mail requesting all able-bodied, red-haired men to apply to Duncan Ross to fulfill a vacancy in the "Red-Headed League" to earn £400 a week and convinced him to apply. Spaulding and Wilson went together to speak with Ross about the vacancy. Ross immediately hired him on the stipulation that he must remain in Ross' office, copying out of the Encyclopedia Britannia from 10:00 to 2:00 every Monday through Thursday. Wilson agreed and set up his computer in Ross' office each morning to fulfill his copying duties. On Thursday, Ross paid him £400 at the end of his shift. This continued for nearly four weeks until this morning. When Wilson arrived at the office, he saw a cardboard sign hanging on the door marked "The Red-Headed League is dissolved." He asked the neighbouring offices about the location of Duncan Ross, but no one could tell him anything. He called the building landlord, but she stated that the office had been let out to a manufacturing company of artificial kneecaps and knew nothing of the Red-Headed League. Not knowing where else to turn, he came straight-round to ask for my assistance.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The Science of **Deduction**  
**Forum**  
Latest Forum Posts

John Watson  
I might be wrong, but I think I know a prank when I see one.

theimprobableone  
hahahahaha!! this is a funny one!

Anonymous  
Yeah, they got this sucker good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**John Watson  
Thur, Mar 7, 4:12 PM**

Sherlock? What's going on with this  
new case? It's a prank, right? It has  
to be. The "Red-Headed League"?

Rather expensive for a prank,  
wouldn't you say?

Nah, my mates and I pulled loads  
of pranks together when we were at  
uni. The expensive ones were always  
the best.

Spent more time engaged in  
ludicrous past times than you did  
focusing on your studies, did you?  
That explains why you're still doing  
locum work.

Oh, you bastard. I am a damn  
good doctor and you know it. I'm  
doing locum work because that's  
what's available, wanker.

I know nothing of your abilities as  
a doctor. I've never seen you  
practicing medicine.

Yeah, well, you come around to  
the surgery tomorrow and I'll show  
you how good I am.

I have some field work I need to  
complete tomorrow. I'll have to  
assess your medical abilities  
another time.

Damn straight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
Science of **Deduction**  
**Case Files**  
Recently Updated

Red-Headed League  
Notes to be added

Update: Vincent Spaulding has a white acid stain on his forehead and his trousers have accumulated a significant amount of dust and dirt at the knees.

Update: Thorough search of the surrounding area revealed the following buildings opposite the pawnshop: Tesco, Indian Cuisine, Black Books, and Pip Printing, and the following buildings backing the pawnshop: Boots, American Dry Cleaning, Lloyd's Bank, and City Hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
The Science of **Deduction**  
**Forum**  
Latest Forum Posts

Anonymous  
I'm really not following your case notes. What does an acid stain and a map of the city have to do with a fake club?  
↪️ theimprobableone  
Sherlock's a genius! he knows what he's doing!  
↪️ John Watson  
Right. What do dirty trousers have to do with the surrounding shops? Was he praying for a nice haircut, some sushi, more money?  
↪️ Anonymous  
Maybe he needed to take his trousers to the cleaners and get a haircut to hide that stain on his head?  
↪️ theimprobableone  
and then get a book at black books to wile away the hours!

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Sat, Mar 9, 10:46 AM**

Sherlock? Are you alright? You  
haven't written anything on your  
blog since early yesterday morning.

**Sat, Mar 9, 11:37 AM**

Sherlock?

**Sat, Mar 9, 1:52 PM**

I apologise, John. I'm quite busy with  
this case. Yes, you all are hilarious.  
Although, you are nearer the mark  
than those other idiots are.

Those idiots are your fans. You  
ought to treat them nicer.

Would being nicer to them help me  
solve my case?

Not really, no.

Then I'll continue not exerting  
emotional effort where none is  
needed.

Might help me not want to punch  
you in the face, though.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Science of **Deduction**  
**Forum**  
Latest Forum Posts

SH  
Due to continuing conflict and repeated irresolutions, I have relocated. Do not bring your enquiries to Montague Street any longer.  
↪️ theimprobableone  
where are you staying now?

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Sat, Mar 9, 4:13 PM**

Pissed off the landlord one too  
many times, eh? Started another  
fire, did you?

**Sat, Mar 9, 4:57 PM**

Damn it, Sherlock, I know you're  
doing this on purpose.

**Sat, Mar 9, 7:24 PM**

I was enjoying the introspective music  
of Sarasate at St. John's Hall. Interesting  
how a Spaniard can invoke such deep  
empathy with a German composer.

 

 

 

John put his mobile back in his pocket. "Bloody bastard never responds to my texts right away," he muttered under his breath as he began clearing away the patient files of the day from his desk. "He can bloody well wait to hear back from me." He clicked off the overhead lights and reached for the door.

"Forgive me, John, but they do frown upon mobile usage during the performance."

John whipped around, hand instinctively reaching for his hip, before visibly relaxing at the sight of Sherlock standing in the back corner of the office. " _Jesus_ , Sherlock!" His hand went up to his chest as he heaved a deep breath in. "How long have you been in here?" He reached back to turn on the lights again.

"Not long, I assure you." Sherlock walked closer until he was within a few feet of John. He watched John closely - he appeared to be having difficulty breathing; chest rising and falling more rapidly than average. "Are you quite alright?" He frowned and inclined his head. "Forgive me, John. I never intended to startle you quite so much."

John huffed out a laugh and smiled, shaking his head and turning away. "No," he denied, "no, it's fine." He looked back up at Sherlock, more composed. "So, what are you here for? Wanted to test out my medical abilities after all?"

Sherlock smiled. "Not quite. I'm here because I require your assistance."

John stood up a bit straighter, his face serious. "What do you need?"

Sherlock looked him over for a moment before responding. "A serious crime is about to be committed tonight by one of the most cunning criminals in England. I already have two men joining me in the stake-out, but I would appreciate it if you would join as well."

John shook his head, confused. "Why me?"

"Because as ignorant as I am regarding your medical abilities, I feel I am proficient regarding your military ones. This is a dangerous game, John, and the more people I can rely on, the better."

John stood there staring at Sherlock for a moment before responding. "Yes, alright."

Sherlock nodded and moved to walk out the door before stopping. "We may be in need of your service weapon."

John had been following Sherlock to the door, but he stopped abruptly at this statement.

He turned to John. "Please bring it with you tonight."

"How did you know..." he scarcely whispered.

"Simple, John. You are very clearly a man who requires some form of action or excitement in your life. You were not pleased when you were discharged from the army and the way you carry your body says that you still see yourself as a soldier. A man like that wouldn't give up his service weapon willingly and as you were injured and carried away during combat, it was easy enough to convince your superiors that the weapon was left behind on the battlefield."

John frowned and shook his head. "But that's all speculation. You couldn't know for certain..."

"Which is why I looked into your military files and saw that your weapon was listed as M.I.A."

John simply stared at him; eyes wide and face pale.

"Also, when you discovered my presence within the room, your hand automatically went to your hip, in the exact spot a holster would be located. It's been well over a year since you've been discharged from the army, plenty of time to break you of that reflex, and yet, you still have it. You brought your service weapon back with you. Obvious."

John stood there for a moment before breaking out into a laugh.

Sherlock joined in shortly and the two stood, laughing together, for a few minutes.

"Alright, I will bring my gun. Where should I meet you?" John opened the door to the office and stepped out into the hall, gathering his jacket and waving 'goodbye' to the receptionist as he and Sherlock walked to the door.

"We'll meet at the entrance to Boots on Baker Street. We'll be able to walk to our location from there."

John nodded. "Okay, I'll meet you there in about 40 minutes."

They both stepped out of the surgery and walked down the pavement in opposite directions.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Sherlock breathed in the crisp, cool, night air as he walked down Baker Street towards Boots. This part of the case always excited him - the thrilling anticipation of danger and adventure. Standing right on the precipice of a solved case, but not having it solved just yet. _God!_ It was thrilling! Even more so tonight, knowing that John would be joining as well. He didn't fully understand why this was so important to him. Originally, he wanted John to join him with his cases because he believed that was the only way he would be able to maintain contact with him outside of that hateful massage parlor. But now, he and John had been communicating, somewhat regularly, without John ever being directly involved with his cases. Sherlock wasn't quite sure why, but for some reason, simply communicating still wasn't enough. He thought through it for the hundredth time that day as he continued passing people on the pavement. Why John Watson? What about him made it almost a physical _need_ to have him along on the case? He wasn't particularly clever, perhaps cleverer than the average Londoner, but Sherlock had known many people who fit that bill and he never had any desire to invite them along. He continued pondering the question of John Watson as he came to a stop before the entrance to Boots.

"Hey, Sherlock!"

He turned to address the speaker. "Lestrade." He inclined his head in greeting.

Lestrade walked up to him with an expectant look on his face. "Well?" He finally asked after Sherlock remained standing there. "Shouldn't we get a move on?"

Sherlock shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short.

"Sherlock!"

He turned and watched John climb out of a cab before jogging up to him and Lestrade.

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. "John, was it?" He held out his hand for John to shake. "Wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

John looked at Lestrade, surprised, before glancing back at Sherlock. "Yeah," he agreed, shaking the offered hand and looking back and forth between Lestrade and Sherlock, "didn't think I'd be seeing you again, either."

They all stood together a bit awkwardly until Sherlock piped up, "We'll be meeting Merryweather there." Then, without waiting for the other two, he started walking down the pavement.

As they walked, John turned to Lestrade. "Is there anything you can tell me about what's going on? Sherlock just asked me to come - he didn't really explain anything."

"Oh, you've really not been working with him long, then." Lestrade remarked, side-eyeing John. "He's notorious for that. Never tells you anything until the last minute." He glanced up at the back of Sherlock's head, but he said nothing.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Sherlock led them through the entrance of Lloyd's Bank.

"So, someone's going to attempt to rob the bank?"

"Yeah, apparently," Lestrade replied, "but the genius up there has yet to tell us how he's going to do it."

"Mr. Merryweather." Sherlock extended his hand in greeting. "You know Detective Inspector Lestrade and this is my associate John Watson." He gestured to each of them.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." Merryweather huffed impatiently shaking the offered hand quickly. "I still don't see what the point of all this is. We have some of the most technically-advanced security in the country in place. No one can get through those doors," he jabbed a withering finger to the entrance, "if we don't want them too. I've said it before and I'll say it again; this is a phenomenal waste of my time! And I'll be missing my weekly poker night because of it!"

"I guarantee you, Merryweather, you will be playing for stakes here tonight, the likes of which you have never before played for."

"Yeah," Merryweather mumbled as he turned around, "a wild goose." Then, a bit louder, he said, "Follow me." And he led the men down a hallway to a locked room where the vault was located. Sherlock strode in and closely examined the room, at one point, pulling out his magnifying lens to do so.

The others stood back and watched him work: Merryweather, impatiently, Lestrade, expectantly, John, attentively. Finally, Sherlock stood up, snapped his magnifying lens closed, and turned around. "Right. Show me the basement."

Sighing in exasperation, Merryweather led the men down further corridors and stairs, unlocking and relocating doors as they went along, until they reached a nondescript room filled with shelves, boxes, and crates. "The walls are quite strong, Mr. Holmes. We aren't fools you know." He smacked his hand against the wall in demonstration.

"Merryweather! Do try to contain your idiocy for just a few moments and kindly shut up!" Sherlock hissed at him angrily. "We are on the verge of catching one of the most cunning criminals of England of the past ten years and I won't have you mucking it up by throwing a tantrum like a child! Now, do us all a favor and go sit on that crate in the corner and Do. Not. Speak."

Affronted, Merryweather leaned back and was about to go on a tirade of his own before Lestrade interrupted him.

"I promise you, sir, he's very seldom wrong."

Merryweather clamped his mouth shut and glared at Sherlock for a moment before moving to the crate indicated and sitting down.

Sherlock walked around the room, tapping the floor with his feet. He stopped in a corner opposite Merryweather and everyone listened as he gently stomped again.

"My god!" Merryweather exclaimed. "That sounds hollow!"

Sherlock sent him a withering look before turning to address Lestrade and John, who were walking closer to him. "In a moment, I will need to turn out this light, so as to not arouse any suspicion. Lestrade, have you posted your men at the pawn shop?"

Lestrade nodded.

"Good. I will ask that no one," he looked directly at Merryweather, "make any sounds until I give the word."

Merryweather huffed in aggravation.

"What do want me to do, Sherlock?" John asked.

He turned to John and raised his hand, unconsciously, just over John's shoulder before stopping and dropping it again. "Just keep watch on this floor," he pointed to where he was standing. "You'll know what to do when the moment arrives."

John nodded, turned around, and sat on a nearby crate, facing the floor. Lestrade moved to the other side of the room to take his position, and Sherlock stayed right in the middle.

Sherlock looked between John and Lestrade and asked, "Are you ready?" After they both nodded, he addressed Merryweather. "Alright, Merryweather, make yourself useful and turn off the light."

Grumbling, Merryweather did so and darkness fell upon them.

The seconds ticked by into minutes and the minutes ticked by into hours. Sherlock could distinctly make out the high-pitched, wheezing breaths of Merryweather from the deep, even breaths of Lestrade from the light, controlled breaths of John. He knew he had made the right choice, stopping by John's surgery and inviting him along. He was perfect for this; he was an experienced marksman, which was always a plus, he took orders well, didn't talk back or question what was being asked of him, and he was clearly falling back on military training because, while Sherlock could hear the faint rustling and scratching of the other two men as they shifted around in the dark, he heard nothing but that light, controlled breathing from John. John had said it was a miracle that Sherlock was alive because he didn't eat while working, but really, Sherlock thought it was a miracle that he managed to solve a single case before John. His presence made itself known without detracting his attention from the task at hand. On the contrary, Sherlock found that he was actually hyper aware of his surroundings, which may have been the reason why Sherlock was able to hear the faint scrape, scrape, scraping of a trowel on hard earth before it became apparent to anyone else. As it got louder, Sherlock could hear Lestrade hold his breath in and Merryweather gasp softly. John did not react in any way and if Sherlock hadn't been so focused on the floor before him, he would've taken a moment to exude some pride at that. However, a thin light soon began emanating from the edges of the tile in the floor as the scraping became even louder. Eventually, the entire tile was pushed up and to the side as a hand reached over the threshold. It retreated within an instant, replaced by a man's head, shoulders, and arms. The man looked about the darker room, but clearly saw no danger as he hoisted himself up onto the floor. After a moment, he reached down and pulled another arm out of the tunnel.

"Now, John!" Sherlock shouted as he leapt upon the man.

"Make a break for it, Archie!" The man yelled as Sherlock descended upon him.

John ran towards the hole and grabbed the sleeve of Archie's shirt, but Archie ripped it away as he made his escape. John threw the sleeve down as he turned around and saw Lestrade handcuffing the man's wrists behind his back with Sherlock standing in front of him.

"John Clay," Sherlock stated simply as the man sneered at him. He turned to Merryweather. "Alright Merryweather, you can turn the lights on now."

He did so and ran up to the three men. "Mr. Holmes! How ever can I thank you? We must reimburse you somehow!"

"Yes, I think you must," Sherlock stated with a hard eye on him before turning back to Clay. "We've been searching for you for a long time, Clay."

He said nothing, merely glared in response.

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade. "Do your men have the accomplice?"

Lestrade clicked on his radio. "Gregson? Jones? Do you have him?" There was nothing but static for a moment before a voice clicked back, "Yeah, Greg, we've got him." Lestrade turned back to Sherlock and nodded his head.

"White acid stain on his forehead."

Sherlock turned to face John. "I'm sorry?"

"He has that white stain on his forehead, just like you said. Is that how you knew he wasn't Vincent Spaulding?"

A genuine smile broke out over Sherlock's face. "Of course. I first became suspicious when I heard the assistant came to work for half wages." He looked at Clay. "No one is that bad off." He turned back to John. "I asked myself, why would anyone agree to work for half wages? Obviously to secure a position within the establishment. Determining that, the ruse of the Red-Headed League became crystal clear -"

"He needed to get Wilson out of the shop," John replied thoughtfully.

Sherlock nodded. "Clearly, the assistant was up to something he didn't want the owner to know about. After visiting the pawn shop myself, I determined that, not only was Spaulding actually Clay, but also, Clay had been doing some digging. Doing a general sweep of the shops around, I determined that this bank backs directly to Wilson's pawn shop."

"But how did you know they would strike today?" Lestrade asked.

"The League closing, right?"

Sherlock offered John a grateful smile. "That certainly indicated that they would be striking soon, but I knew it was going to be tonight because of the bank's hours - it's closed tomorrow. That would have given Clay and his accomplice a full day to get away before anyone could suspect a thing."

John shook his head. "I still don't understand. How could they have gotten into the vault? We passed through multiple security systems just getting down here. Surely, they couldn't have passed them all going up?"

"I think I can answer that one," Merryweather spoke up from the back of the room. Lestrade and John turned towards him. "Our sister bank in Paris is currently remodeling and needed a place to store their gold reserves. The crates you gentlemen were sitting on is loaded with nothing short of £50 million worth of gold."

John turned quickly around to ogle at the crate he was just sitting on as Lestrade whistled appreciatively.

"Again, thank you so much, Mr. Holmes, for clearing this matter up and saving the bank."

Sherlock leaned closer to him. "Remember that when you are writing out the cheque." He straightened up again. "Well, Lestrade, I'd say our work here is finished." He turned to John. "Come along, John." He proceeded to walk up the stairs with Merryweather leading the way.

Lestrade directed Clay as he and John caught up and followed behind. Merryweather led them through each security checkpoint until they once again arrived at the lobby. More officers from Scotland Yard had arrived and Merryweather let them in as he let Sherlock and John out. It wasn't until they were standing in the nearly empty street that John finally spoke up. "That was amazing, Sherlock. Truly remarkable."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air, but a smile ghosted his lips and his eyes brightened.

John smiled wider. "Brilliant."

Sherlock turned and watched him for a moment before nodding and quietly replying, "Thank you, John."

They stood there a bit uncomfortably until Sherlock indicated the end of Baker Street with his hand. "Would you care to walk with me? My new flat is very close."

"Alright," John replied simply.

They walked in silence as the stillness of the early hour morning fell heavily upon them. It had not quite reached three and seemed as though the whole city were asleep. Sherlock, still riding his endorphin high from the case - of _course_ it was the case, it couldn't have been anything _other_ than the case - didn't feel like he could sleep even if he tried. He felt tempted to ask John to dinner again, or to breakfast, which most people seemed to enjoy more, having some kind of connotation attached to it, although Sherlock could never quite figure out what, but he feared that he would scare John off if he continued requesting social outings, so he decided against it. He was just glad that John had joined him on this case and that was enough - wasn't it? Shouldn't it have been? Why did it not feel like enough? As he, once again, attempted to ponder out the question that was John Watson, Sherlock stopped before the door to his flat.

John kept walking a few steps before he noticed that Sherlock had stopped and had to turn around and make his way back. "Sherlock? What is it?"

Sherlock looked at him, surprised. "This is my flat. I thought that would have been fairly obvious."

John looked up as recognition passed over his face. "Oh, the executed-husband-from-Florida's widow, eh?" He looked back down at Sherlock and grinned. "Owed you a favour, did she?"

Sherlock smiled back. "Naturally."

They stood there for a few moments, just smiling at each other.

Sherlock held out his hand to John. "Well, John, thank you for your assistance tonight."

John took it and offered a tight-lipped smile. "Not that I did much except rip up a man's shirt."

"Needs must when the devil drives, John. You slowed his escape, allowing Lestrade's men time to get into position and apprehend him."

John released Sherlock's hand. "Yeah, well, none of us would have been able to do a thing if it hadn't been for you and that brilliant brain of yours."

Sherlock took a sharp breath in, an epiphany overtaking him, and replied quietly, "You are a conductor a light."

John looked at him, confused, but Sherlock marched on.

"Well John, you must be tired, so I will leave you to it. I hope to hear from you soon."

John nodded. "Of course."

Sherlock nodded as well before walking into his flat. He sought out John's eyes as he turned around and held them as he slowly closed the door.

John stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, before turning down the street in search of a cab to take him home.


	10. Assistance

Science of **Deduction**  
**Case Files**  
Recently Updated

Grimesby Roylott  
Notes to be added

I had two separate visitors to my flat this morning; one, a fairly young woman with pleasant manners and the other, a wild, aging man who threatened me with my own fire poker. Interestingly enough, they both sought me out regarding the same case.

Background: Helen Stoner, a woman in her early twenties, greying prematurely, currently lives with her step-father, Dr. Grimesby Roylott, a man in his late fifties with a violent disposition and a quick temper. She lived with her twin sister, mother, and biological father in India, where her father was stationed until he died when she was two. Her mother met Roylott in India and the two married when Stoner and her sister were both five. They moved back to England shortly after the wedding, but three years later, the mother died. Stoner describes her life growing up as terrifying - never knowing when or how Roylott would lose his temper. Stoner states that, three years ago, her sister had come to her, frightened, and asked if she had ever heard any whistling in the night. Stoner stated that she had not and tried to appease her sister's fears, but was unable to do so. Stoner reports that her sister died the following night, muttering something about a "speckled band." Her cause of death was officially reported as "Unknown." Stoner then states that, last night, she had been lying awake in bed, after an exceptionally volatile argument with Roylott, when she heard a whistling noise as described by her late sister. She immediately turned on the lights, but could see nothing. She strained to listen, but could not hear anything more. Early this morning, she boarded a train to seek my assistance.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The Science of **Deduction**  
**Forum**  
Latest Forum Posts

John Watson  
Have they checked the step-father yet?  
↪️ Anonymous  
Yes, I was thinking the stepfather too.  
↪️ theimprobableone  
same here  
↪️ SH  
Roylott had been thoroughly investigated and cleared of the death of the sister.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Science of **Deduction**  
**Case Files**  
Recently Updated

Grimesby Roylott  
Notes to be added

Update: Roylott allows wandering gypsies to camp on his land.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The Science of **Deduction**  
**Forum**  
Latest Forum Posts

theimprobableone  
could it have been a gypsy that killed her? they carry all sorts with them  
↪️ SH  
Of course not.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Wed, Mar 13, 9:14 AM**

Why couldn't it have been the gypsies?  
Also, that response was a bit rude.

Gypsies are nomadic people who travel  
from place to place carrying only what  
they require to survive. Their level of  
education is strikingly low and their  
desire to remain isolated is high. It is  
highly doubtful that they possess the  
motivation to kill the sister, much less  
the education to do so in a way which  
would result in an official inconclusive  
cause of death, nor the means nor  
material to do so.

Also, I could have pointed out his  
stupidity to him, but neglected to do so  
while still answering his question. I  
thought you would have been pleased.

Well, I suppose that is improvement.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Science of **Deduction**  
**Case Files**  
Recently Updated

Grimesby Roylott  
Notes to be added

Update: Roylott has been to court for no less than 26 charges of assault and 12 charges of battery over the past five years.

Update: Roylott illegally houses a baboon and a cheetah upon his premises.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The Science of **Deduction**  
**Forum**  
Latest Forum Posts

Anonymous  
That's an animal right's violation! Call Animal Rights right now!

theimprobableone  
do you think one of them killed her?

John Watson  
First, how did you find this out? Second, if he has a cheetah and a baboon, I wonder what else he has lurking about. It's a wonder they weren't all mauled years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**Sherlock Holmes  
Wed, Mar 13, 12:37 PM**

John. I will be engaging in dangerous  
activities tonight and will require your  
assistance.

I bet nightly activities with you would  
be dangerous.

What?

Nothing. What do you need help with?  
I'm assuming you're not planning on  
cheetah or baboon hunting.

Of course not, but I will need to  
stake out Stoke Moran tonight.

Stoke Moran?

The residence of Roylott and Stoner.

How was I supposed to know that?

I did tell you about it this morning.

When?

Just before discovering the cheetah  
and the baboon.

Okay, I wasn't with you. You do realise  
that I can't hear you talking when I'm  
not there, right?

Irrelevant. Will you come?

When?

We'll need to catch the 4:30 to get  
to Stoke Moran before nightfall.

My shift ends at 4, might be kind of  
tight, time-wise.

Just meet me at Baker Street after  
your shift. It's closer than your flat.  
We'll travel together.

Alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock paced the floor, glancing at his watch every few seconds. 4:11. He sighed. He really ought to just leave John behind. Not only was it imperative that he reach Stoke Moran before nightfall, but also, he wasn't exaggerating when he told John that it would be dangerous. John couldn't have known exactly how right he was regarding the other animals on Roylott's property. He glanced at his watch again. 4:12. Huffing impatiently, he doubled back around for his eightieth lap around the flat. He had been involved in more perilous cases than this one in the past, but he felt the stakes had never been higher as it was no longer his own life he was gambling with tonight, but John's as well. He thought that, perhaps, maybe, he really _should_ work this one alone. It didn't sit right with him that he should endanger John's life unnecessarily. He looked at his watch again. 4:13. That's it! He was leaving. He was just making his way to the door when he heard muffled voices on the stairs.

"He's always dashing about! You know, my husband was the same..."

The door opened and in walked Mrs. Hudson with John in tow.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson chastised looking about the room. "The mess you're in!"

John glanced around at the random debris cluttering up the flat, eyebrows raising.

Sherlock _really_ felt it was time they got a move on _now_. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson! Off out!" He exclaimed, offering her cheek a quick kiss as he bounded down the steps. "Come along, John!" He yelled up the stairs.

"Look at him, so happy." Mrs. Hudson remarked fondly. She turned to John. "But you best get going. He's likely to leave you behind, that one."

John nodded. "Yeah, I'll... talk with you later then." He hurried down the steps, himself, attempting to catch up with Sherlock. He found him out in the street, holding open a door to a waiting cab. John climbed in and Sherlock climbed in after him.

"Waterloo Station, cabbie, and quick! There's twenty quid in it for you if we make the 4:30 to Sutton!" Sherlock exclaimed.

The cab shot out into traffic, weaving through the lanes to get to Waterloo Station. The tension in the cab was palpable and no one dared break the silence as they quickly made their way down the A4201. Exactly 8 minutes later, the cab stopped before Waterloo Station, and Sherlock thrust £35 at the cabbie before rushing to join the ticketing queue to purchase their tickets.

After obtaining them, John and Sherlock walked to Platform 4 to board their train to Sutton. Once Sherlock finally took his seat, he felt as though he could finally relax a bit. He looked at his watch once more. 4:28. Perfect.

"So, care to tell me what this is about?"

Sherlock sat up straight and turned to John. "I'm sorry?" Surely, John couldn't have known the inner struggle Sherlock faced regarding asking him to join tonight, right?

"The case? The stake-out? I know there's a whistling, a speckled band, a dead sister, and a rather violent step-father, but other than that, I don't know much."

The train whistle blew and, within seconds, it started off down the track.

"Truthfully, John, there's not much more I can tell you, except to caution you to be on your guard at all times tonight. We may be in for a long night, but I urge you to stay alert throughout if you value your life."

John's lips smiled, but his eyes remained serious as he huffed out a quiet, insincere laugh. "Seriously?"

Sherlock's grave expression remained unchanged. "I do have some scruples with asking you to join me tonight. I'm not exaggerating when I say the chances of one of us dying tonight hoovers at around 75%."

John's eyebrows shot up. "That dangerous, is it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"But I can be of assistance?"

"Unequivocal."

"Then I will certainly join you."

Sherlock watched him for a moment, warmth spreading throughout his entire body, before responding. "Thank you, John."

John nodded to him and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. "If we're going to be up all night, I'm going to try to get some sleep," he murmured before cracking an eye open. "You might want to do the same."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not while there's a case on, John."

John smiled and closed his eyes again. "Of course," he murmured before falling silent, his breathing deepening.

Sherlock sat there, going over the case in his mind, subconsciously matching his own breathing to John's.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"John, wake up. We're here."

John shook his head and pried his eyes open. "Yehuh? What?" He replied groggily, shaking his head and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Sherlock's hand fell from John's shoulder and he pointed out of the window. "Sutton," he stated simply as the train gently rolled to a stop, brakes screeching.

"Right," John stated and stood up. The two men left the train carriage and hired a cab to take them to Stoke Moran.

At 5:42, the cab pulled into Farnham, dropping them off at The Crown as requested. The sun was just starting to set and the deep red hues seemed to light the sky aflame as Sherlock pointed out Stoke Moran across the fields to John.

"That's the door to the main entrance."

John squinted and nodded. "Yeah, I see that."

"The window to the right of that door is Roylott's bedroom."

"Okay."

"And to the right of that is Stoner's."

"Alright, I see it."

"We'll have dinner here," he pointed to a table set up out in front of the pub, "and keep our eye on that house. As soon as Stoner shines a light through her window, we'll sneak into her room as quietly as we can. Once inside, it is absolutely imperative that we do not make any sound, understand?"

"Of course."

Sherlock nodded. "Good." He waved his hand to the entrance of The Crown. "It's getting on six now. You might as well eat. We may have a long night before us."

"If I get something for you, will you eat it?"

Sherlock just looked at him.

John shook his head and shrugged. "I had to ask," he muttered quietly before walking into the pub to order his dinner.

Sherlock sat down, eyes never leaving the house, and before long, John joined him. They sat, watching the house in silence - well, _Sherlock_ was the one mostly watching the house. John seemed distracted; continuously turning towards Sherlock before quickly glancing away from him. Sherlock was grateful when John's food arrived because he then turned his attention towards his plate. He wasn't sure what had gotten into John. During their last stake-out, he had been calm and collected. Well, _true_ , they _had_ been sitting in complete darkness, so Sherlock never actually _saw_ John during the stake-out, but he had sounded calm. He risked a small side-glance at John before resuming his vigil; he was eating with relish. Sherlock smiled at the sight. John simply needed to eat, was all; he would be better afterwards. Satisfied with his conclusion, Sherlock resumed watching the house.

It wasn't until approximately four hours later that the light finally shone out from Stoner's window. Sherlock immediately stood up. "That's our cue, John."

John, who had begun nodding off in his chair, abruptly sat up and looked around, gathering his wits about him before rushing after Sherlock, who had already crossed the road and was making a beeline for the house.

It took them five minutes to reach Stoke Moran. As they neared the house, a high-pitched screeching noise shot out in the dark. John made to run through the front door, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm. He leaned close to John's ear, lips almost brushing the outer ridge, as he tried to whisper as quietly as he could. "It's the baboon." His breath ghosted over John's ear and across the side of his face.

John shivered. "Lovely household," he whispered back, turning his head towards Sherlock in order to be heard better. In doing so, his cheek slightly brushed against Sherlock's cheek. John's eyes sought out Sherlock's in the dim light and held them.

Sherlock stood there, unmoving, staring at John and breathing in his breath, transfixed. After a few moments, he shook himself from his trance and continued making his way towards the house. "Come along, John," he murmured softly.

They reached the open window and climbed in quietly. Once inside, Sherlock removed the lamp Stoner had placed there. He sought out John and pointed to him and then to a corner of the room, indicating that John should sit there. Once John had done so, Sherlock pointed both fingers to his eyes and then pointed to a vent high in the wall across the room from John but beside Sherlock. John glanced at the vent before looking back at Sherlock and nodding. Sherlock continued watching John as he placed his right hand on his right hip and then drew it before his face, two fingers out, two fingers down, gesturing a gun. John reached beside him and held up his revolver for Sherlock to see. Sherlock nodded, satisfied, and proceeded to turn off the light.

Time crept by just as it had done the night of the apprehension of John Clay, but Sherlock found his awareness to be even more acute this time as he did not have anyone else present to distract him. John's breathing remained as silent and controlled as ever and his stillness was duly marked by the silence emanating from him. A neighboring church bell tolled the quarters as they remained sat there. One hour, two hours, three, but Sherlock's eyes never strayed from the vent and his focus never shifted from the case at hand. As the last bell of three o'clock rang out loud and clear through the air, Sherlock finally heard it. A low whistling as described by Stoner. John continued showing no reaction to the sound itself and for a split second, Sherlock feared that he had not heard it as an extremely quiet, high-pitched, continual sound reverberated throughout the room like a high pressured stream of air slowly being released. Sherlock threw himself back crying, "Do you see it, John?! Do you see it?!"

Sherlock had scarcely gotten the words out of his mouth before John aimed and shot at the vent.

A hiss of air sounded and after a few moments, a deep-throated, guttural scream projected from Roylott's room.

"My god, Sherlock! What was that?"

Sherlock walked to the door. "Let us enquire of Roylott. I think our answers may lie there."

Entering Roylott's room, they saw the man, himself, laying supine on the floor, face twisted in a horrified expression with a large brown and yellow snake coiling around his neck, continuously striking the man's head with his fangs.

"A Swamp Adder!" John gasped.

Sherlock whipped around. "Very clever, John," he remarked sincerely.

"We were briefed about them before starting our mission in Afghanistan." John stepped closer for a better look. "These things can kill a man in under two minutes."

Sherlock nodded before adding, "Nice shot."

John turned to Sherlock, his eyes fixed upon the snake, before turning around and looking at the snake himself. "It's bleeding."

"So this is what passes for 'damn good medical abilities' then?"

John huffed out a laugh, murmuring, "You wanker," under his breath before speaking louder. "Alright, how do we move the damn thing without it biting us?"

"You'll have to kill it, John. It's already mortally injured and is currently taking its aggression out on Roylott's head. If either of us approach it, it will surely turn on us."

John looked between Sherlock and the snake for a moment before conceding. "Yes, alright." He lined up his shot, aiming for the snake's head, and fired. The snake went limp almost immediately and John tucked his gun away.

"Well John, I must inform the local constabulary about what has occurred here tonight. You are welcome to stay, but I fear it will not be very exciting."

"No, it's alright, I'll stay. They probably frown upon witnesses leaving the scene anyway."

Sherlock nodded and pulled out his mobile.

 

 

 

 

 

  
It was nearing six and the sun was just cresting over the horizon to start a new day. The Farnham constables had arrived, asking John and Sherlock to describe every, single, tiny detail, which left Sherlock seeing red and John trying to prevent murder. By the time the chief constable finally gave them permission to leave, Sherlock's good humour had bubbled down and fizzled into nothing. He grumbled all the way to Sutton, hardly speaking two words to John. John, on the other hand, was too exhausted to do anything other than ignore Sherlock's complaints and desperately try to keep himself awake. He very nearly succeeded, falling asleep once during the cab ride to Sutton and again during the train ride to Waterloo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"John," Sherlock's voice rumbled gently. "We're here."

John's eyes cracked open, but he did not move to get up. "Hmmm," he murmured, discontented.

Sherlock, who was feeling the effects of an all-night stake-out himself, was anxious to get to his flat and get some rest, especially after that idiot Dimmock forced him to repeat what had happened _three separate times_ , but he was hesitant to encourage John to get up any quicker. Within the first ten minutes of the train ride, John had fallen asleep and approximately ten minutes after that, the train hit a rough patch of points, which sent John's head flopping over onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock spent the remaining twenty-five minutes sitting rigid, trying to convince himself to push John back into his own seat, but strangely unwilling to do so.

As John became more and more aware of his surroundings, he quickly sat up. "Oh shit, Sherlock! I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise, John. You are clearly very tired. As you have done me a favour by staying awake all night to assist in the Roylott case, I feel it is my duty to reciprocate by suggesting you come sleep at my flat. It is much closer, which means you'll be able to get to sleep faster. And as we have a bed on the second storey, it's much quieter, meaning you will achieve a better rest."

John searched Sherlock's face for a moment before slowly agreeing. "Yes... alright..."

Sherlock nodded, businesslike, and stood up resolutely. John followed suit and the two eventually found themselves in the back of a cab, riding along the roads to Baker Street. When they pulled up to the flat, Sherlock paid the cabbie as John stumbled out. By the time they finally reached the door, it was well into morning and many people were walking along the pavement, going about their day. Sherlock unlocked the door and let them both in. He walked John straight up to the bedroom on the second storey. It was minimally furnished, but clean due to there being no tenants living there yet. John glanced about the room half-heartedly before falling upon the bed, face down. Sherlock sighed and walked in to remove John's shoes.

"Mmm, thanks." John muttered, his voice muffled by the blanket.

Sherlock grabbed a spare blanket from the cupboard and covered John up with it. "Of course," he replied simply as John's breathing grew deeper and heavier. He stood there, watching John for a moment, as a flashback from his days posing as Sergei popped into his mind.

_John lay upon the table, breaths moving in and out slowly as Sergei massaged his back. The day had begun with Sergei needing to attend to four rather demanding patients. He was also working on a case involving a missing, supposedly dead, husband that was giving him some difficulties. Sergei truly believed this would be the day Lestrade would arrest him for murder. All he needed was one more idiot to do or say just one more idiotic thing and he would have snapped.Thankfully, before he could asphyxiate anyone, John Watson walked in and gave Sergei an hour of blissful peace and calmness. He was relishing the silence while working out a decidedly difficult knot when he realised that John's breathing had taken on a rhythmic quality. He stopped the massage and listened, keeping his hands upon John's back. They rose up and down smoothly with John's breathing; palms resting on his back and fingers splayed out on either side. Sergei continued to listen to John's breathing. He looked at John's face, which had taken on a lax, content expression. A gentle snore emitted from John's lips and broke Sergei out of his reverie. With John asleep, there would be no way he would know if Sergei had actually completed the massage or not. He could spend the remaining twenty-five minutes identifying clues for his latest case on his phone while John slept, none the wiser. Sergei glanced down at the pocket holding his mobile and then glanced at John, laying upon the table completely at ease. Almost immediately, without questioning it further, he moved down to begin massaging John's left leg._

Sherlock shook his head as the flashback faded away. He took one last glimpse of John, asleep on the bed, before turning out the lights and closing the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if my Sherlock sounds a bit like ACD/Granada Holmes at times. Sometimes, it's difficult to keep all of their mannerisms separate in my head.
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading!


	11. Partnership

It had been about two months since John had accompanied Sherlock to Stoke Moran and discovered the truth regarding the 'speckled band.' Since that time, John had been, somewhat regularly, assisting Sherlock in his cases - providing more assistance in some than in others. He had also returned to 221b many times during those cases, but he never stayed any longer than necessary.

When he had woken up late in the afternoon after visiting Stoke Moran, the first thing John became conscious of was a breath-takingly beautiful melody wafting up into the room that carried with it almost an air of mournful yearning. John laid upon the bed, transfixed, watching the long shadows cast into the room by the ruby reds and blood oranges of the setting sun. The music swelled and John took a deep breath in, before it reached its crescendo and fell back upon itself as John released the breath he had been holding in one long, satisfying exhale. He continued laying there, watching the shadows crawl along the wall and enjoying the music, until his phone buzzed.

**Sarah Sawyer  
Thurs, Mar 14, 5:48 PM**

Hey John, I know it's your day off,  
so I really hate asking, but Susan's  
begging off sick and we're a bit bogged  
here, would you be able to come in for  
a few hours?

He listened to the soothing melody a moment or two more before sighing and responding.

**Sarah Sawyer  
Thurs, Mar 14, 5:48 PM**

Hey John, I know it's your day off,  
so I really hate asking, but Susan's  
begging off sick and we're a bit bogged  
here, would you be able to come in for  
a bit?

Yeah. I'm pretty close. I'll stop by  
as quick as I can.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself out of bed, picked his shoes up from the floor, and headed downstairs. As he descended, the volume of music increased. It wasn't until he walked through the door to the sitting room that he truly identified the source of the music. With the soul-wrenching beauty of it - the composition of notes that picked you up with beautiful fortissimo crescendos only to drop you back down to mournful pianissimo dirges - John had originally believed that he had been listening to some sort of prerecorded ensemble, but no. The source of that haunting melody was coming from the tall, gangly man, dressed formally in slacks and a button up shirt, but casually in a dressing gown over it all, stood facing one of the windows, violin perched delicately upon his shoulder, bow gliding smoothly across the strings, and body gently swaying to the music. John simply stood there, watching Sherlock play, until the music stopped abruptly.

"No need to loiter in doorways, John." Sherlock turned his head around to face him, but did not move from the window. "I heard you come down three minutes ago."

John stepped in, feeling a bit awkward being caught staring. "Yeah, I just..." he floundered a bit, "...didn't want to interrupt." At least that much was true.

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow, but said nothing.

"I forgot - you told me that you played, I guess I just forgot."

His eyebrow lowered and joined the other one in a confused frown.

"It was just a surprise, seeing you playing."

A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face.

"Oh, shut up." John stated heatedly, walking over to the couch to put on his shoes.

Sherlock did turn completely around at that. "Where are you off to, John?" He tried to sound completely nonchalant, but missed it by a mile.

"I got called into the surgery," he said while lacing his shoes.

"Ah," Sherlock replied, turning back to the window, hoisting his violin upon his shoulder once more, and started playing that haunting melody all over again.

John watched his back for any sign of farewell, but receiving none, he nodded to the room in general and slipped out the door and down the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That had been two months ago, but John still remembered, with perfect clarity, how Sherlock had looked standing at the window, back turned towards him, playing his violin. That beautifully tragic, longing melody stuck with John too and, late at night, he could still hear those soft, mournful lamentations as he drifted off to sleep.

He had thought about that afternoon many times within the past two months and was just trying to puzzle out the meaning behind the tune for the hundredth time when the nurse opened the door to his examining room.

"Victor Hatherley is your last patient today." Her face was a bit white. "Severed thumb. I told him to go to A&E, that we wouldn't be able to do much for him here, but he refused."

John looked at her in surprise. "That's alright. Send him in and I'll see what I can do."

She nodded and closed the door. John looked about to see what he could use to help this poor man. He, personally, had seen his fair share of severed limbs in Afghanistan; however, the worst injuries this surgery was used to were minor wounds and stitching removal, which, thinking on it, is probably why they sent Hatherley to him. He knew timing was critical when attempting to reattach a severed digit, so he quickly gathered what materials he could find and laid them out as Hatherley was shown into the room.

"Mr. Hatherley, please sit down." John spoke calmly, but authoritatively. "First, I must know, do you have the severed thumb with you?"

Hatherley raised a shaking hand holding a bloodied kerchief.

John put on some latex gloves and picked up the kerchief. "How long has this been severed for?" He walked to the sink in the back room to wrap the thumb in a damp paper towel.

"F--f--four ho--hours..."

John glanced back at him quickly as he placed the severed thumb in a plastic bag and submerged it in an ice bath. He didn't appear to be going into shock. He was holding a makeshift bandage over his thumb and raising it up about shoulder height, which was a good sign - he probably stopped quite a bit of the bleeding himself. John walked back over and took his vitals. If he were in the field, he would have attended to the thumb first, but thankfully, as the thumb had only been severed four hours ago and neither of them were being shot at, he had the luxury of time to determine Hatherley's current vitals. His pulse was weakened, but not weak, his breathing was clear and normal, his pupillary response was normal, and his answers to John's basic questions; "What's your name?" "Where are you from?" "What do you do?" were clear and concise, if a bit shaky. Satisfied, John moved on to examine the thumb next. He removed the makeshift dressing and looked at the wound - thankfully, it was a clean cut. That boded well for the success of the reattachment. John stopped and thought for a moment. It _was_ a clean cut - a _very_ clean cut. He looked up at Hatherley again as he planned out how to begin the bone adjustment and arterial and venous repairs in preparation for reattachment. He set about cleaning and sanitizing the wound before giving Hatherley a local anesthetic, the best he could do with his limited supplies.

"Thankfully, this is a clean break." John tried to sound conversational. "That will increase the chance of successful reattachment."

Hatherley just nodded his head shakily.

John laid Hatherley back and propped his arm up as he began cleaning away the damaged bone. "I've never seen a break so clean before," he continued. "Although, to be fair, I used to work in Afghanistan, so most of the limbs I've seen were taken off by bombs."

Hatherley said nothing.

John retrieved the severed thumb from the ice bath and then cleaned, sanitized, and cleared away the damaged bone from it. "What happened here, though?" He continued, trying to fish out information from the man. "Just get a new set of kitchen knives and wanted to see if they were as sharp as they claim to be?"

Hatherley huffed out a breath, finally speaking as John put on some surgical glasses and began reattaching the bones using K-wires. "I was attacked. Colonel Stark was trying to kill me, I know it. He only got my thumb, though."

John continued fitting the bone together, wishing he had some proper pins to use. "Colonel Stark? What happened, did you have a row with your commanding officer?" He looked closer at the thumb and focused on repairing the flexor and extensor tendons.

"No." Hatherley replied shakily. "I'm a private engineer. I don't work for the military."

John was concentrating on repairing the tendon properly, knowing that the veins, arteries, and nerves would not be able to reattach if there was any stress upon them. As a result, he worked quietly for some time.

Hatherley seemed more than willing to let the matter drop and sat there silently until John had finished repairing the tendons.

"There we are," John stated as he finished suturing the remaining tendons. He then moved on to the arteries and veins. "So you're not in the military, eh? How'd you meet this Colonel Stark then?"

"He came to see me at my house late last night, around 11:00, and asked if I would be able to help him repair his machine."

"I didn't know that was something engineers did." John continued suturing the arteries and veins.

"Not typically, and I told him that, but he was insistent. Offered me £4,000 to help him."

John's eyebrows raised, but he remained focused upon his work. "How'd you know they weren't bluffing."

"I didn't, but they gave me £1,000 straight off to let me know they were serious about payment."

John took off his gloves and threw them away before removing the surgical glasses he had been wearing and reaching over to the table behind him to grab a pair with higher magnification. He was lucky the surgery had them. He didn't think he'd be able to attach the nerves otherwise. He put the glasses on, adjusted the viewing components, put on a fresh pair of latex gloves, and began working again. The glasses weren't ideal, but John was making do. "Yeah, that might have convinced me."

"Should've said 'no.' Should've turned him away and shut and locked the door." Hatherley murmured. "Now, I can't even go to the police - they won't believe me. I'm out £3,000 and a thumb!"

"Well," John replied slowly, "I wouldn't say that just quite yet." He smiled at Hatherley as he removed his gloves in order to take off the surgical glasses. He put on a fresh pair before he began stitching the skin closed.

"The thing that bothers me the most is the girl. She warned me to leave. She helped me escape. I shudder to think what they might have done to her."

"So there are more people in danger, then?"

"I fear the woman might be."

"If you need assistance, but can't go to the police, my friend, Sherlock Holmes, might be able to help you. He's a consulting detective, but isn't employed by the police." He finished stitching up the thumb and cleaned the surrounding area.

Hatherley sat up as much as he could. "Do you think you could introduce me? If we hurry, we may be able to save her!"

John looked at him for a moment, conflicted. The doctor in him said, 'No, you ought to be on bed rest for at least two days while your thumb heals,' but the soldier in him said, 'Absolutely, if someone is in danger, we must hurry to help them.' John said nothing, debating with himself as he observed the color and warmth of the reattached thumb. It appeared in good condition, so he placed a large compression dressing on it and added a splint for good measure, wrapping it all together. He took Hatherley's vitals once more before finally conceding. "Yes, alright, but if I feel you need to rest, you must listen to me."

Hatherley nodded enthusiastically and practically bounded off the examining table.

John cleared away the materials he used and cleaned up the office a bit before stepping out into the hall with Hatherley in tow. He ran into the nurse on the way out. "Alright, Susan. I'm going to be heading out now. I'll see you all on Thursday."

She seemed a bit shocked when she saw Hatherley following him, but said nothing other than, "Okay, John. I'll see you later."

They walked out onto the street and John flagged down a cab. Typically, if he were going to Sherlock's flat after leaving work, he would take the tube or walk but a cab was much faster and time was of the essence.

They arrived in less than five minutes. John paid the cabbie as Hatherley stepped out onto the pavement. John led the way inside, not even bothering to knock. They both walked up the stairs and John opened the door and led the way into the sitting room. It was empty. He glanced around. "Sherlock?"

There was a noise from the back of the flat and John walked further inside, turning to look down the hallway that connected the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom. As he looked, he saw Sherlock approaching him in, what appeared to be, nothing more than a sheet. "My god, Sherlock!" John quickly turned away as Sherlock walked closer. "I brought a client for you, you might want to put your clothes on," he remonstrated.

Sherlock continued walking until he passed John and sat down in his leather chair, sheet-robe still in place. "No, I'm fine," he told John before addressing Hatherley. "Please, sit. I observe that you are either fairly ill or have lost a lot of blood recently, but either way, you are in need of rest."

John shook his head at Sherlock before turning to Hatherley. "Yes, please." He pulled out a chair and indicated with his hand. "You should be resting."

Hatherley sat obligingly, but began speaking to Sherlock immediately. "Mr. Holmes, can you help me? There's a woman who might be harmed if we don't act now."

Sherlock closed his eyes and held up his hand. "Please, start at the beginning. I will need clear and concise details if I am to be of any assistance."

John sat in the chair opposite Sherlock, attention resolutely focused on Hatherley. Sherlock glanced at him quickly, smiling, before he also turned to Hatherley, who had begun speaking.

"Right. Yesterday night, about 11:00, a man stopped by my flat, Colonel Stark, and asked if I could do some repair work on his machine. I'm a hydraulics engineer and am more used to designing and building machines than I am at repairing them. I told him this, but he said I came highly recommended by a name I didn't recognise. I was about to decline again, but he offered to pay me £4,000 for a five to six hour job. I was hesitant, but he gave me £1,000 right then, so I figured he was in ernest." Hatherley shook his head before continuing. "I agreed to go, and he pushed me into a waiting car with blackened windows. I couldn't tell where we were going, but it seemed to take about an hour to get there. When we finally stopped, I was pushed into a large, decrepit house and led up to a room and asked to wait. As I stood there, a woman with a German accent came in and begged me to leave. Wanting the £4,000 promised to me, I did not listen to her and she left the room right before Colonel Stark returned with another man - I don't remember his name. They showed me a large hydraulic press and asked me to look into it. I did so and after a few hours, I discovered that one of the pistons was leaking. It took me another hour or two to replace the damaged piston, and by that time, the German woman's plea had all but fled my mind. At the end of the night, I ran the press, showing them that it was working, and heard some metallic crushing sound. Afraid I had damaged it further, I went into the press to investigate."

"You went _into_ the press? It must have been huge." John interjected.

Hatherley nodded. "Yes, I apologise, I guess I ought to have mentioned that the press was actually an entire room within the house. That's why it took me so long to look over everything. Anyway, I went into the press to investigate the noise. I didn't understand why, but Colonel Stark was shouting at me to get out the entire time. As I turned around to question him, he shut and locked the door. It was then that the German woman's warning came back into my recollection as I stood listening to the press start up. Naturally, I banged against the door as the ceiling began to lower, but could soon do no more than crouch down and contemplate my fate as the press lowered even more. Just as I was sure I was dead, a plank in the wall opened up and the German woman grabbed me and helped pull me out." He stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. "I will never forget the sound of those two metal plates crushing together for as long as I live." He stared into nothing a moment more before shaking his head slightly and continuing. "She led me though the house, urging me to get as far away as I could. By this time, Colonel Stark realised that I had escaped the press and was tearing through the house looking for me. I climbed out one of the first storey windows just as Colonel Stark broke through the door. He had a cleaver in his hand and death in his eyes as he shoved the woman away and swung wildly at me. I dropped to the ground, conscious of a throbbing pain in my hand. I saw my thumb had been cut off and found it laying nearby. I picked it up with my kerchief and quickly tied up my hand as I fled the house." He shook his head, looking at Sherlock, who sat reclined in his chair, eyes closed, sheet wrapped tightly around his body. "I'm sorry, but I must have passed out because the next thing I remember is being on the tube riding the District Line. I must have still been a bit confused because I got off at Edgware Road Station and asked one of the constables where the nearest surgery was instead of the nearest A&E." He turned to John. "Thank god you knew how to reattach my thumb. I'm not sure if it would have survived if you all had turned me away."

John shook his head about to brush off Hatherley's compliments, but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Yes, he does go on about his medical skills. Apparently, they are 'damn good.' Now!" Sherlock sat up quickly, not waiting for a response from John, who was scowling at him, "the first thing we must do is determine where this house is located if we are to help this German woman. I think it's a safe bet to say that Colonel Stark is not his real name. Can you give us any indication of what he looked like or where you drove? Did you take many left turns, right turns? Was the road smooth or bumpy? Did you appear to be driving quickly or slowly? Anything at all."

Hatherley thought for a moment before responding. "He was middle-aged and also spoke with a German accent. He was very tall and broad in the shoulders, but extremely thin throughout. His face was very bony and his hair was short and thinning. We seemed to be driving quite quickly over smooth roads at the beginning and end of the journey, but I do remember the car making a lot of turns halfway through the ride. I distinctly remember because I thought for sure we'd be getting out, only to continue driving for about another half hour."

John looked to Sherlock who was standing up and making his way to his bedroom - door cracked open. "Sounds like they were turning around. What do you think? Did they make a wrong turn?"

Sherlock shouted through the door and down the hall. "Not at all, John. In fact, they didn't make a single wrong turn; although, they did turn around."

John shook his head, confused, and turned in his chair towards Sherlock's bedroom. "I don't understand. Why turn around if they hadn't made a mistake?"

"To give the allusion of distance, of course!" Sherlock walked back out into the sitting room, completely dressed. "They drove out 30 minutes, turned around, and drove back. That's why you were able to get to John's surgery so quickly." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and quickly sent a text.

John and Hatherley remained sat, watching him. After a moment, John asked, "Okay, so what now?"

"Now," Sherlock responded as his mobile chimed. He read through the text, smiling, before continuing, "we make our way to Wimbleton." He threw on his coat before making his way downstairs.

John stood up, following immediately, before turning back to Hatherley. "How are you feeling? Do you feel light-headed? Does your thumb feel cold or numb?"

Hatherley stood up and walked downstairs with John following behind as he answered John's questions. "I feel alright, Dr. Watson. My thumb is far from numb - it's actually in quite a bit of pain - but it's nothing I can't tolerate for the moment."

"If the pain gets worse or continues to be unbearable, you need to tell me immediately."

Hatherley nodded as they met Sherlock on the pavement, flagging down a cab.

"So, Sherlock, care to explain how you determined Wimbleton?" John asked as all three of them stepped into the cab, John sat in between Sherlock and Hatherley.

"Shilcott," Sherlock stated simply as the cab pulled into traffic.

"Shilcott?" John asked. "Who or what is Shilcott?"

Sherlock shifted minutely, leg bumping John's in the process. "Howard Shilcott is a District Line employee who has access to all of the CCTV footage at the stations. It was simple enough to ask him to review the footage and determine at which station Hatherley got on." He pulled out his mobile and began texting once more.

John nudged him gently with his arm and asked, "Okay, but now what? We're not just going to go wander around Wimbleton, looking for a German woman and a tall, thin, middle-aged German man, right?"

Sherlock settled back against the seat, body resting comfortably beside John's. "Of course not. We'll work with the local police to help us find the house. If my assumptions are correct, this Colonel Stark is probably well known to the local law enforcement."

Silence fell upon the cab as they continued their journey south to Wimbleton.

When they arrived, Inspector Bradstreet was waiting just outside the station for them. "Sherlock Holmes! We've found your house, but I'm afraid you aren't going to like what we have to show you."

The three men stepped out of the cab and left it idling on the street as they walked up to Bradstreet.

"Is she dead?" Hatherley spoke up.

Bradstreet looked at him, confused. "Who do you mean?"

"The... The German woman. I don't know her name, but she helped me escape. Was she murdered?"

Bradstreet turned to Sherlock, still confused.

Sherlock shook his head as he gestured to the cab. "Irrelevant at the moment, I can inform you of the situation on the way, but don't you think we best get moving?"

Bradstreet sighed and shrugged, walking to the cab as the rest followed behind him.

It was a bit cramped and everyone sat pushed against each other as they rode to the house in question. Sherlock filled Bradstreet in regarding Hatherley's late night experience as John checked Hatherley's vitals and thumb, as best as he could in a moving vehicle with no actual equipment.

Once they arrived, the first thing that became apparent was the thick, black smoke filling the air.

"Ah," Sherlock remarked as the cab pulled to a stop, "I see."

John paid the cabbie as everyone stepped out and stared at the charred house, black smoke still billowing out of the broken windows.

"Not much to salvage," Bradstreet remarked as they stepped under the police tape and walked closer to the burnt, collapsed house.

"But, the woman! She helped me escape! Is she alive or dead?"

Bradstreet turned to Hatherley and shook his head. "No bodies have been found inside. She either must have gotten away or left with them, willingly or not."

Sherlock ran up to the front steps, studying the ground. "As far as I can tell, she left willingly enough." He looked up at the three men as he pointed to the ground. "Three distinct sets of footprints; two larger, one smaller, all evenly spaced, showing no resistance or hesitation on anyone's part." He turned back to the ground, continuing to point as he spoke. "They carried something heavy out of the house before making their escape though. At a guess, I'd say it was probably their collection of counterfeit pounds they were producing using that hydraulic press you were working on." He turned to Hatherley.

"How...?" Hatherley began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"How did I know? Simple. First, you were approached late at night regarding the job, which tells me that the requesters wished to keep their actions away from prying eyes. Second, they wanted to approach you at home instead of your business, which made it easier for them to do this off-the-books and not leave a paper trail. That speaks of illegal activities. Third, they were in need of hydraulic repairs, but sought out a hydraulic engineer instead. Why? Because they knew that you were a bachelor with no family and few friends - basically, someone who wouldn't be missed by many if they happened to go missing. That spoke of danger. When you mentioned the metallic crunching noise as the press closed, it was a safe bet that these people were mass producing counterfeit coins and when you described Colonel Stark as screaming at you to get out of the press when you went to investigate, it nearly confirmed it. I texted your description of Colonel Stark to Bradstreet and he confirmed that they had been watching Fritz and Elsie Becher for a few months now. Just waiting to collect enough evidence for a proper warrant to search the premises."

"Amazing," John remarked, staring at Sherlock.

"Superficial," Sherlock replied, but looked warmly at John.

"So, that's it?" Hatherley asked, dispirited. "I did all that work and nearly lost my thumb for nothing?"

"Well, you _did_ get £1,000. I suppose that's _something,"_ John stated, trying to placate him. "It could have been worse. You could have completely lost your thumb and gotten nothing."

"Your body could have been crushed inside the press or burnt to a crisp," Sherlock added a bit light-heartedly.

John shot him a glare as Hatherley continued, "Well, I guess I deserve it, leaving in the middle of the night like that with a perfect stranger." He sighed ruefully. "I think I'll head home now. No sense staying here."

"Remember to rest that thumb and visit A&E immediately if the pain gets too bad or your thumb begins to feel numb."

Hatherley nodded and walked away.

"I suppose there's no sense in our staying around, either. The birds have flown and we no longer have a case to solve." Sherlock turned to Bradstreet. "Thank you for your assistance, Bradstreet." He stuck out his hand.

Bradstreet shook it heartily. "Anytime, Mr. Holmes. It's always a pleasure to work with you."

Sherlock nodded and turned towards the street with John following close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read ACD's Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb, the poor man walks away with nothing - neither thumb nor money. I felt obligated to right that wrong in this fic. Lol!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Companionship

"So, Lestrade, Dimmock, Bradstreet, exactly how many Inspectors are you mates with?" John asked as Sherlock waved down a cab.

Sherlock grimaced as one pulled up and stopped before them. "Dimmock and I couldn't exactly be considered 'mates'." The distain was evident in his voice.

John chuckled as they climbed in. "Alright, how about Lestrade and Bradstreet then. You seem pretty chummy with them."

The cab pulled away as Sherlock frowned and shook his head. "I don't meet them at the pub for a pint if that's what you're asking." He turned to John, clearly confused. "I'm not exactly sure _what_ you are asking. I help them out when they get stuck in their cases and they help me out when I require official information or police interference. I'm not sure what you mean by 'mates' and 'chummy'."

John smiled and laughed awkwardly while shaking his head. "Nothing. I was just, um, chatting."

Sherlock watched him a moment more, still confused.

"Anyway," John faltered, "changing the subject..."

"Yes, please do." Sherlock turned back and faced the front.

"I've got some time off from the surgery - just the rest of today and all day tomorrow - if you've got any more cases on."

Sherlock turned back to him, quiet.

"Just, you know, want to help out any way I can." He cleared his throat.

A knowing smile slowly spread over Sherlock's face.

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock!"

He chuckled to himself before responding, "Yes, I do think I have one or two things I could use your help with."

John nodded. "Absolutely. What do you need?"

"Well, there are some shelves I've been meaning to put up and the toilet runs continuously unless you jiggle the handle, so I've been meaning to look into that as well."

John shoved him across the seat. "Piss off!"

Sherlock laughed again before stating, "In all honesty, John, you are welcome to come over any time you like. You don't need the excuse of a case to stop by."

John looked at him.

Sherlock looked back, eyes bright with laughter, but serious.

John nodded and looked away. "Thank you, Sherlock, that's... yeah, that's..." he took a deep breath, "good to know."

Sherlock looked out his own window as the cab pulled onto Baker Street. "Well, you might as well start now." The cab rolled to a stop before 221 and Sherlock turned back to John. "Those shelves aren't going to put themselves up."

John shoved him again as Sherlock laughed, reaching for his wallet. He paid the cabbie and they both got out and walked into the flat.

It didn't look any different than it had earlier in the day, but it felt different as Sherlock walked inside. John was here. Well, he had been here many times within the past two months, hadn't he? But, before, it had always been due to a case. Now he was here for a social visit and Sherlock was a bit lost regarding what he should do.

"I suppose you should make yourself at home." Sherlock waved his arm to the sitting room in general, before flitting around, picking up random debris and piling it on top of other random debris.

"Um, thanks?" John stated as he sat down in the red chair he frequently sat in when he came over.

Sherlock looked around the room, completely at a loss. "Do you, do you want tea?" He asked having nothing better to say.

"Sherlock, it's fine. You don't have to play 'host' to me. Just, do whatever you do when I'm not here."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John hastily amended, "Or, you know, don't. Just, whatever's socially acceptable, I guess."

Sherlock frowned at him. Socially acceptable? That all would depend on the experiment being conducted and the individuals present, wouldn't it? John seemed a bit uneasy, so Sherlock made sure to clarify. "Do you consider experiments on mould cultures socially unacceptable?"

John stared at him for a moment before expelling a pent-up, nervous laugh. "No, that's - yes, fine. Your experiments are fine. I don't mind that."

Sherlock frowned at him a bit more. Okay, he wasn't the most clever person when it came to social situations, but he was fairly certain he was receiving some strange cues from John. He just couldn't figure out what they were. "John...?" He started, unsure what to say or where to go from there.

John pressed on. "No, it's fine, Sherlock." He had calmed himself a bit and spoke earnestly. "Really, I don't mind. I've been here many times before, I can tend to myself." His mouth clamped shut.

Sherlock still wasn't sure why John was acting the way he was and almost continued pressing the issue, but John interrupted before he could.

"In fact, I do think I'd like a cuppa, but I will make it myself. Would you like one? I'm making one anyway, one more won't be difficult."

Before Sherlock knew what he was saying, he replied, "Thank you, John."

John nodded, standing up and turning quickly to the kitchen.

John was acting very bizarre, but Sherlock couldn't fault him too much. After all, this was a new situation for them both, so neither of them really knew how to act around the other. Watching John a moment more as he pulled out the teabags and filled the kettle, Sherlock entered the kitchen himself, sitting before his microscope to finish analysing his mould cultures. As his brain switched back into observation and analysation mode, the sounds of John moving about in the kitchen faded into the background until they were nothing more than a warm, reassuring presence. A steaming cup of tea appeared beside his arm and, without thinking, he lifted it to his lips and sipped from it. 'Perfect,' some distant place in his brain thought as he continued looking through his collection of mould cultures, writing down his observations as he went along.

When he had gone through his entire collection, he realised it was late in the afternoon and the sun was just beginning to set. He looked around and found John sitting in the red chair, marking the puzzles in the paper. John must have sensed Sherlock's shift in concentration because, at that moment, he turned around and looked at him.

"All finished, then?"

"With as much as I can do currently, yes."

"Would you be up for some takeaway? I'm feeling a bit famished myself. I tried to find something earlier, but you really don't have much of anything."

Sherlock detected John's undertone of disapproval, but decided not to address it. "Takeaway is fine. There are menus in the top, left drawer." He began collecting his cultures as John stood up and pulled out the menus. Usually, he would have just left the cultures out until he could work with them again, but with John present, Sherlock somehow felt obliged to make some attempt at making the flat look presentable. The fact that John was coming round to his flat, just for social reasons, not even for a case, made Sherlock want to do something in return. He figured the least he could do was relocate his cultures somewhere else.

"What do you think," John interrupted Sherlock's thoughts as he walked back out from his bedroom, "Italian or curry? I'm a bit fed-up on curry, myself, but could find a good one if you'd prefer it."

"Get whatever you want, John, I'm not likely to eat much."

John dropped his arms to his sides and looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock, you're going to eat."

Sherlock said nothing.

John narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock..."

He sighed, exasperated. "Yes, John."

"Yes, John, what?"

"Yes, John, I will eat."

"And I mean a full meal."

"Of course."

"Of adult portions."

"Obviously! John, this is getting ridiculous."

"All tonight."

"Now that's just preposterous!"

John smiled. "Promise me."

"Okay, yes, fine, John! I promise. Just order already and get it over with."

John nodded and pulled his mobile out of his pocket to dial.

Sherlock moved to his chair, flopped down, and watched John as he ordered their takeaway for them. He felt a warm sensation flood his chest as he watched him. The man was ceaselessly fascinating. Where others said, 'freak,' he said, 'brilliant.' When others were glad to leave, he was glad to stay. Where others offered moronic solutions, he offered, well, okay, maybe just _slightly less_ moronic solutions. When others bowed to Sherlock's strong will, he stood stronger still. He was amazing. He defied all preexisting notions of peer relationships. Sherlock had no idea how to categorise John Watson. He was in a class of his own.

"About 30 minutes." John stated as he walked back into the sitting room and sat down across from Sherlock. "What would you like to do in the meantime?"

A sudden vision of warm skin sliding beneath his palms flashed into his mind before he shook the thought away, wondering vaguely why he would suddenly be thinking about his time spent at the Zen. "Cluedo," he stated simply.

Incredulous, John looked at him. "Cluedo?" He repeated back.

"Of course, I have the game in the back. I'll just go get it."

John huffed out a laugh as Sherlock walked past him to his bedroom. "Can you even play it with only two people?"

"Sure you can," Sherlock called down the hall as he fished the game out from under this bed. He never liked playing Cluedo with Mycroft. Mycroft would say it was because he always lost, but Sherlock was still adamant that it was because Mycroft kept cheating. He carried the game back into the sitting room. But there was no way he could lose to John. It would be pretty pathetic indeed if he couldn't win a simple detective game against someone who couldn't tell that mud splatters on the right side indicate a bicyclist is traveling away from a city, but mud splatters on the left indicate towards a city. "John pull that table up, would you?"

"Yeah, sure," John replied as he moved the small, glass table between the two chairs.

Sherlock placed the game upon the table and began setting it up. "You do know how to play, correct?"

John snorted. "Yeah, I think I got it, thanks." He grabbed some pieces, himself, and helped Sherlock set up the game.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Was it Professor Plum with the revolver in the library?"

"John, you can't ask about your own character."

"I damn well can! It's in the rules."

"I don't care about the rules. Unless your character is suffering amnesia, which I highly doubt, seeing as he's a piece of plastic, you cannot ask about your own character."

John glanced at him from behind his cards. "You're just upset because I've gotten more answers than you have."

"That's not the point!"

"Then answer the question: Was it Professor Plum with the revolver in the library?"

Sherlock scowled at him for a moment before exclaiming, "No! Alright! No, it wasn't your precious Professor Plum. I have him right here." He flipped the card around a bit forcefully.

John chuckled and marked him off his list.

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock remarked.

Their takeaway had arrived 25 minutes ago. John stopped the game long enough to go collect it and portion it out between the two of them. He also opened a bottle of Pahlmeyer 2015 Merlot he found in Sherlock's kitchen and poured them each a glass, returning to his chair to eat and continue playing. Sherlock tried to let John get distracted by the game so he wouldn't hold him to his earlier promise of eating his entire dinner, but John was having none of it; skillfully playing like a goddamn Cluedo champ while reminding Sherlock to eat every five minutes. How the man had enough brain power left to focus on his own meal was a damn mystery.

Sherlock looked at his sheet of suspects. He knew his own cards couldn't be the killer and he had marked just about all of John's cards. There were four cards, facedown, beside the board, but Sherlock had already seen them all. He rolled the dice - 9, perfect. He moved his piece into the ballroom. "Alright, John," he stated confidently, "was it Mrs. Peacock with the rope in the ballroom?" He smiled at his own cleverness.

John sighed. "No, it wasn't Mrs. Peacock. I have her."

Sherlock's smile dropped. "What? How can you have her? She was the last one on my list!"

John shrugged and showed his card to Sherlock. "I don't know, but she's right here."

"No," he denied. "No, that's not right."

"Well, she's right here, so it wasn't her. You must have marked one by accident or something."

"No, that's not possible, John. I have an infallible system. Every single one I marked, I've seen with my own eyes. I know for a fact all of these people are innocent."

John rolled his eyes and took another drink of his wine, which had been flowing freely all night.

"It must have been the victim."

"What?!"

"The victim had to have done it, it's the only possible solution that makes sense." He reached for the envelope.

"Sherlock, that's insane! That's not even a choice!"

"Hung himself, obviously. No one else had access to the room. No footprints or fingerprints found at the scene. This six suspect business is just an example of shoddy police work," he stated, opening the envelope and pulling the cards out to look at them, confused.

"Oh my god, you are seriously insane, Sherlock! It's a bloody _game_ , you tosser! There were no footprints or fingerprints because the game designers didn't make any! This is not real!"

"Alright, then. What was your guess, because I'm telling you, I had every one marked out except for the victim."

"It's Colonel Mustard with the rope in the dining room."

"How the _hell_ did you know that?!" Sherlock exploded.

"Because I marked the bloody boxes you or I had! Those were the only choices left!"

Snarling, Sherlock swiped the game board from the table and stabbed it to the wall.

"Oh, that's just lovely," John snipped.

"It will serve as a reminder of how inferior minds create inferior solutions and how I will not allow myself to stoop to their level."

" _Jesus Christ_ , Sherlock! It's a fucking _game_! My god! I am never playing this with you again!"

Sherlock stood glaring at John as John sat glaring at Sherlock, both breathing heavily. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. "A film then."

John barked out a laugh. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Sherlock's stance relaxed. "I'll even let you pick it."

John glared at him a bit more, saying nothing.

Sherlock sighed as if he were enduring a great hardship before stating, "I'll even finish the rest of my pasta."

John's countenance cracked as a small smile spread across his face.

Sherlock returned to his seat, picked up his plate, and began eating. "Mmm, John," he remarked insincerely. "Very good."

John snorted at that as his smile widened. "Alright, you lunatic. We're watching _From Russia With Love_." He pointed to Sherlock. "And I don't want to hear any complaining."

Sherlock shook his head as he ate another bite of his Pasta Primavera.

"Go on then." John waved him back to the sofa as he attempted to work the television. Sherlock didn't have the film on DVD, but he did have the internet connected to his television, so John was able to find and stream it through Google Play.

Sherlock transported his plate and emptied wine glass to the sofa and John joined him shortly afterwards with his own wine glass and the wine bottle. He refilled Sherlock's glass before refilling his own and setting the empty bottle on a side table. Sherlock never did this sort of thing - _never_. Never once, in all of his life, had he _ever_ sat on the sofa, eating dinner, drinking wine, and watching a film alone, much else with another person. This had never even been on his radar, but as the wine's dulling effects spread throughout his limbs and brain, he was starting to see the perks of it. He was warm, comfortable, and content. John was sat next to him, perhaps a bit closer than need be, seeing how the sofa was large enough to accommodate three to four adults, but Sherlock found that he didn't really mind. In fact, now that he was thinking about it, he thought he wouldn't mind if John sat a bit closer, honestly. It didn't make sense that he'd be wasting all that space over there, when he could be right against Sherlock and share in his body heat.

He heard John chuckle and felt his arm shake as a result. Sherlock came back to himself and realised that he had not been attending to the film at all. He looked down, surprised to see that he was holding an empty plate, before turning to John who was watching him with flushed cheeks and a smile. He hadn't been attending to the film either.

"You were hungrier than you thought."

Sherlock thought John's voice sounded a bit hoarse - all deep and cracking. His body felt heavy as he shrugged and placed the plate on a nearby table. Leaning back further into the sofa had the pleasant effect of brushing his shoulder against John's. Sherlock closed his glossy eyes and thought about how nice it all was as he swallowed the rest of the wine in his glass.

"Are you still hungry?" John asked, voice definitely sore.

Sherlock knew a sore throat when he heard one. The way John was talking now - all deep rumbles and liquid chocolate? That wasn't the John he knew. "Mmm," he rumbled himself. Must be catching. Subconsciously, he slumped and scooted a bit closer to John's warmth. He had never felt so warm and comfortable in his entire life. He was sure he had never felt so warm and comfortable.

John laid his arm over the back of the sofa behind Sherlock's head. "Alright," he soothed. "That's alright, Sherlock." He pulled Sherlock tightly against him, causing Sherlock's head to fall over and rest against his neck, before he relaxed his arm, leaving his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

No, he was wrong before. _Now_ , he was the most warm and comfortable he had ever been in his entire life. How did John keep proving him wrong? The man was an enigma. A damn, beautiful, amazing, wonderful enigma. Sherlock sighed and as sleep closed in around him, he, once again, considered the question that was John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part was so much fun to write. I had been wanting to write that Cluedo scene for years. <3
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


	13. Friendship

Sherlock slowly woke up, feeling sore all over. He rolled his head around, to work out the crick in his neck, only to discover the source of his pain. His eyes shot open as he sat up and turned around. He had fallen asleep sitting up on the sofa, head lolled over on John's shoulder. John remained sat there, asleep himself, arm wrapped around Sherlock's back and resting on the seat. Sherlock suddenly remembered John staying over, playing Cluedo together, and watching a film before Sherlock fell asleep. Sherlock looked towards the television and saw the Google Play home screen lit up on the _From Russia With Love_ selection with the option to 'Play Again.' Sherlock smirked as he fleetingly recalled, over a year ago now, how John had mistakingly believed Sergei was from Russia. His eyes flitted over to the Cluedo board and he scowled. How someone who can't distinguish a Russian dialect from a Ukrainian dialect could win at Cluedo against someone who can is a damn mystery and, frankly, appalling. He stood up, swaying a bit, and hunted for his mobile for the time. It was nearing one in the morning. He turned back and watched John sleep. He couldn't wake him up and ask him to leave at this hour, he found the idea immensely abhorrent; however, he also couldn't just let John sleep sitting up on the sofa like that. He stood there a moment longer, indecisively, before walking to bedroom upstairs.

He came back down with a pillow and duvet. He laid the pillow at one end of the sofa - the end facing the door - and laid the duvet on the floor. He slowly, gently, carefully maneuvered John until he was laying flat on the sofa, head propped up by the pillow. He remained leaning over him, watching for any sign of wakefulness, but John continued breathing slowly and deeply, with an occasional snore every now and then. Sherlock grabbed the duvet off the floor and covered him with it. John snuggled down into it a bit deeper and Sherlock watched him a moment more before turning off the lights and heading to his own room.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Wed, May 15, 9:13 AM**

Thanks for letting me kip on your  
sofa last night.

Certainly, John. As I stated before,  
you are welcome at my flat any time.

You must have left early this morning.  
Do you have a new case?

Just doing some research. I should  
be home this afternoon to discuss  
the details if you would like to do so.

Sounds good. I will meet you here then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Sherlock Holmes  
Mon, May 20, 11:38 AM**

Just received an interesting case from a  
new client. Come at once if free. If busy,  
come all the same.

I'm in the middle of a shift, Sherlock.  
I'll stop by when it's over.

I may be gone then. Come now.

Oh for - yes, alright, fine.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Some late on-set mental illnesses could account for the bizarre behaviour; schizophrenia, Alzheimer's, dementia."

"True, John, but none of them can explain how a 61-year-old man was able to climb up a creeper in order to peer into a second storey window."

John inclined his head in acquiesce as he sipped his tea. Sherlock watched him from his leather chair, as John appeared to go over the facts of the case himself.

"We will need to take the first train to Oxford next Tuesday. It will be much simpler if you just plan to stay here Monday night. We can then travel to Waterloo together Tuesday morning."

John sat there for a moment, tea hovering halfway to his lips before nodding and taking a drink. "Alright," he stated simply.

 

 

 

 

 

  
John walked into the sitting room late Monday morning, carrying a small rucksack. Sherlock looked up from his microscope a bit surprised.

"It's a bank holiday." John shrugged. "Surgery's closed. I figured there was no reason to stay at that bedsit all day when I could just be here."

"Truer words have never been spoken, John." He went back to gazing through his microscope. "Although, in fact, there probably _have_ been truer words spoken."

John set the rucksack beside the door as he walked in and sat in the red chair that was quickly becoming _his_ chair.

"Hyperbole," Sherlock continued. "That's the problem with figurative language, John. One never states what one means. Everything is always symbolised - the meaning gets lost in the words."

John grabbed the paper from the side table and idly flipped through it. "Not a man of metaphors, are you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No," he stated simply. "If you ever have something you must discuss with me, John, I beg you to be straight-forward and literal."

John nodded, continuing to read the paper. "I'll keep that in mind."

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Sat, Jun 1, 10:47 AM**

I am desperately bored. Please send  
me something interesting. I don't care  
what it is.

For reversible thermal reactions, the  
same pathway that is followed in the  
forward direction of a reaction will be  
followed in the reverse direction.

Okay, not really what I was going for.

I do believe I asked you to be clear  
when requesting things of me. You  
wanted an interesting fact and said  
you didn't care what it was, so I sent  
one. If you want me to say something  
specific, you can just tell me. It would  
be better than me just having to  
guess at it.

You're right, Sherlock. Thank you. It  
was a kind gesture.

Is your conference not going as well  
as you thought it would?

It's a bit slower than I've been used  
to these past few months.

No one to chase around the city, you  
mean?

That and there's no 61-year-old, drug-  
addled man to fight with.

Embellishments again, John. Neither  
of us needed to resort to fighting him.

We came damn close though.

**Sat, Jun 1, 11:49 AM**

We broke for lunch. Sherlock, are  
you eating?

Yes, John, of course I am.

You are not, you liar.

Then, why did you even ask me?

Okay, I'll rephrase it - Sherlock, you  
need to eat.

I ate yesterday.

No, Sherlock. You need to eat today.  
Something with a lot of protein  
preferably.

Yes, John.

Is that a 'Yes, John' I'll eat something  
and not starve my body of much  
needed nutrients or a 'Yes, John' I'll  
say whatever it takes to get you off my  
back.

Why can't it be both?

Sherlock, are you going to eat or not?

Yes, John, I will eat something.

Thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Sherlock plucked on his violin thoughtfully as he stared out the window, watching the light rain fall. He hadn't seen John for fourteen days now - John had been up in Edinburgh attending a medical conference - and though he wasn't convinced the two items were related, he had been feeling rather restless and irritable as of late. He knew John was returning to London today, and while he wasn't positive he would be stopping by, he couldn't help staring out the window, watching, just in case he did. He had been standing there for one reason or another since six that morning; first, he had been watching for clients, then, he had a botanical experiment that required direct sunlight, then, it was imperative that he count the number of cars that drove down Baker Street - it was for a case, but he had yet to see John walking down the pavement. Needless to say, it was a complete surprise when he heard those familiar footsteps quickly ascending the stairs. He turned around just in time to see the door swing open and John burst in; hair, clothes, skin all damp from the rain. John's eyes brightened as a huge grin stretched across his face. Sherlock felt his chest constrict at the sight.

"It is so good to be home and see you," John exclaimed brightly.

"You haven't actually made it home yet," Sherlock stated, eyes skipping over and taking in every part of John.

He smiled wider and held out his arms. "Okay, tell me how you knew."

 _Oh_ , but he loved this. It was always one thing to have John impressed by his skills, but it was a completely different thing when he actually asked Sherlock to do it. "Crumbled shirt, too crumbled to be just from the rain. The palm of your left hand is dry, but everything else is wet, you never carry an umbrella, so it's your rucksack, you brought it here with you. You are clearly famished, you keep glancing towards the kitchen and would have eaten had you gone back to your bedsit. Also, you have some sauce on your face from this morning's bacon butty, which you would have seen and wiped away had you been home."

"Simply brilliant," John breathed in awe, eyes practically sparkling as he walked into the room, arm extended. "Damn, I've missed you."

Sherlock smiled and grasped the offered hand with both of his and shook heartily. "It's good to have you home, John."

 

 

 

 

 

  
"John!" Sherlock sped towards the alley. He and John had been pursuing a pair of suspects through the streets in the West End of London for their latest case. The pair had split and Sherlock ran down Lamb's Conduit Street, following one, while John ran down an alley, following the other. Before he could get far, though, Sherlock heard gunshots and a familiar voice cry out in pain. His blood ran cold as he stopped dead in his tracks and sprinted back to where he had last seen John. He charged into the alley haphazardly and spotted John laying on the ground with their suspect crowding over him. Sherlock's vision tunneled as he ran up to the man, grabbed the back of his head, and slammed the suspect's face into his patella as forceably as his could. The man fell off to the side, limp, blood gushing from his nose, as Sherlock dropped to his knees beside John and frantically ran his fingers over his body, trying to determine where he was injured.

"Where is it John?!" He cried out, nearly hysterical. "I can't stop the bleeding if I can't see it!" Visions of internal bleeding seared into his brain.

"Sherlock," John stated calmly trying to sit up.

"John, shhh," Sherlock pushed him back down, still desperately searching John's body, "just tell me where the gunshot wound is?!"

"Sherlock," John tried again, a bit more forcefully, placing his hands on top of Sherlock's in order to still them. "It's superficial. The bleeding has already stopped, look." He removed one hand and placed his palm on his left thigh.

Not believing him, Sherlock glanced down at John's leg. He freed one of his hands from John's grip and gently touched his thigh. He was right; the bullet had just grazed the skin - the bleeding had already stopped. Sherlock lowered his head upon John's chest. "Oh, thank god!" He exclaimed as John gently carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock looked up quickly as the suspect began to moan and shift. "You are damn lucky your bullet didn't do more than graze John's leg. If you had killed him, I promise you, you would not have gotten out of this alley alive."

The man moaned and rolled piteously on the ground.

Sherlock continued kneeling over John, scowling at him as John gently pushed him aside. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm fine. Just let me up to call Lestrade."

Reluctantly, Sherlock moved aside to let John stand up, not once taking his eyes off the suspect laying in the alley.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"You know, John, if you just kept some of your clothes at Baker Street, it really would be much more convenient."

"I never said you had to come with me."

"And risk having to repeat myself later? I think not."

They ascended the steps and John unlocked the door to his bedsit. "It's hardly my fault you keep talking when I'm not there."

They walked inside, John flipping on the lights. "It's not my fault you keep leaving. I can't be arsed to solve everyone's problems and keep track of you at the same time. You should just be there instead of the other ridiculous places you go."

John huffed out a laugh as he opened his rucksack and began filling it with clothes. "You mean like work? You know, that place where they give me money so I can pay for food, clothes, utilities, rent?"

Sherlock scoffed and turned around in a circle. "Rent? You're hardly ever here anyways. If you just stayed at Baker Street, you wouldn't have to worry about rent or utilities."

John barked out a laugh as he zipped up his bag. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure the rent at Baker Street is more than what I'm paying now, thanks."

They walked out the door, John turning off the lights as he went.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"John, on average, how much do you spend on the tube, commuting from your bedsit to the surgery?"

"I pay about £150 a month for an Oyster card. Why?"

Sherlock and John were each sitting in their respective chairs at Baker Street. It had been a rather lazy Sunday and the summer sun was slowly setting, giving the city some respite from the glaring heat. Sherlock sat, in full deduction-mode, facing John, who sat idly flipping through the paper.

"If you stayed here, you'd be able to reduce that to about £125 a month, which may not seem like much, but adds up to £300 a year."

John smirked at him over his paper. "And how does that compare with the differences in rent and utilities?"

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment before looking away. "You'd have to tell me what you pay for your bedsit first."

John smiled, pursing his lips, before turning his attention back to the paper.

 

 

 

 

 

**  
Sherlock Holmes  
Fri, Jun 28, 4:32 PM**

I have a case in France that will take  
some time to complete. Will you come?

How long would you estimate?

I would guess anywhere from one to  
two weeks.

Sorry, Sherlock. I can't beg off work  
for that long.

In that case, John, I shall see you in  
one to two weeks. You have the key  
to my flat, though. Feel free to stay  
there as needed.

Alright, Sherlock. Thank you.

Remember to take care of yourself -  
eat food, drink water, and sleep  
everyday.

Only a fool disagrees with his doctor.

Damn straight.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Sun, Jun 30, 10:57 AM**

How's the case going?

Difficult.

Do you want to talk through it with me?

Perhaps later. I need to question the  
theatre director about the paintings.

Okay.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Wed, Jul 3, 8:26 AM**

Sherlock, are you alright? Have you  
been eating?

Occasionally.

What do you mean, occasionally?

This is a very difficult case, John. I  
can't always divert my brain power  
to lesser actions.

Sherlock, you will run your body  
ragged unless you give it the energy  
it needs. Please eat something.

Alright, I'll think on it.

Don't think on it, just do it.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**John Watson  
Sun, Jul 7, 9:41 AM**

I haven't heard from you in awhile.  
Are you doing alright, Sherlock?

Yes, I have almost finished the case.  
Identifying the forger has been  
difficult, but we are closing in on him.

Okay. It'll be nice to have you back  
home so you can tell me about it.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**Sherlock Holmes  
Wed, Jul 10, 11:57 PM**

Case is finished. Taking first plane  
home tomorrow morning.

Looking forward to seeing you.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Sherlock hurried through London City Airport. The day was just starting to get underway and most people were just arriving in order to catch their flights. Sherlock maneuvered through them, desperate to get his luggage from the baggage carousel and get home. The fraudulent painting case had been a good one, but mentally and physically exhausting. He had pushed himself a bit harder than he probably should have and was starting to feel the effects of it. He waited at the baggage carousel for his luggage with the other people from his flight. Once he saw his suitcase, he grabbed it and strode away in search of a cab out front. He thought of nothing else except for getting home and resting. And if a certain blonde-haired Army doctor just happened to be in that home while Sherlock was resting, well, that would just be all that much better. The cab ride home was excruciatingly long and obnoxious, and several times, Sherlock just stopped himself from getting out of the cab to walk instead. When he finally arrived at Baker Street, his welcome home was rather anti-climatic. Mrs. Hudson was out visiting her sister for the week and although it was rather obvious that John had stayed at Baker Street many times, he was not currently in the flat.

 

 

 

 

 

  
**Sherlock Holmes  
Thur, Jul 11, 9:12 AM**

Thank you for caring for my flat while  
I was away. I am home now.

I work until 1 today. I will stop  
by when I get off.

 

 

 

 

 

  
1:00. That gave Sherlock approximately four hours to rest. Grudgingly, he carried his suitcase into his bedroom and began unpacking his clothes. He considered making himself some tea, but thought perhaps he would rather let John do that for him. He always seemed so keen on caring for Sherlock, that he felt obligated to allow John to do so. Looking around and deciding everything else could wait until later, Sherlock decided to rest. He walked into his bedroom and laid upon the bed without even bothering to undress. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Sherlock!" Feet bounded up the steps and into the flat. Everything was quiet except for a slight snoring in the back room. John quickly walked down the hall and opened Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock was laying in bed, completely clothed, fast asleep atop the duvet. John stood there for a moment, just watching Sherlock sleep, before he gently sat on the bed next to him and rested his hand on his shoulder, gently shaking his arm. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open. "Mmrf?" His face was smushed into his pillow. He lifted a bleary eye to John who remained sat next to him, hand resting on his shoulder. "Mmmjohn," he slurred, speech still thick with sleep. He flopped his head back on his pillow as John lightly chuckled and rubbed his arm a bit.

"Strenuous case, eh?"

"Mmm."

"You look and sound as though you're in need of some rest and relaxation."

Sherlock cocked his head and turned a suspicious eye to John.

"Need to get away from it all."

Sherlock lifted him head, the better to frown at John with both eyes. "John, I just came back from spending two weeks in Paris. What on earth makes you think I need or want to get away?"

"Okay, maybe not. It's just that I have an Army friend who's invited me down for the weekend and I thought you might like to come."

"You want me to go away with you for the weekend?"

"That is what I am asking, yes."

"Isn't that a thing that couples do?"

"Maybe. It depends on the people going."

Sherlock held John's eyes with his own until John's face pinked and he turned away.

"Alright," Sherlock agreed before realising he was going to.

John's face lit up. "Okay. Good. I'll let Hayter know to expect us tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded, feeling slightly queasy.

John, never moving his hand from Sherlock's shoulder or himself from Sherlock's bed, asked with interest, "Okay, now, tell me about this painting case."

Sherlock smiled and thought he could probably spend the rest of his life talking with John about his cases.


	14. Pique

"As you can see, the atmosphere is quite beautiful down here - very peaceful, relaxing."

Sherlock let out a long, exasperated breath and closed his eyes.

"It's perfect, Hayter. Just what Sherlock needed."

Sherlock looked up, shaking his head slightly.

"Been feeling a bit poorly, eh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared at him and opened his mouth, but John interrupted. "He's been in Paris the past few weeks working on a fraudulent painting case and hasn't been caring for himself very well. He told me the case was rather difficult, but he solved it in the end." John looked over at Sherlock with a prideful smile and Sherlock's brow smoothed out a bit.

"Ah, you always did tend to favor the clever ones, eh, Watson? Like James Sholto. My god! You were always following him about!"

Sherlock's frown returned in full force.

"Sholto was a great commander! Do you remember that time," John began, laughing at the memory, "he was in charge of the wake-up detail and he ran into the crows' barracks, screaming about ambushes and waving his gun about to see how fast it'd take them to get out of bed?"

Hayter laughed along with John. "Never seen so many grown men so close to pissing themselves before in my life."

Sherlock continued scowling out of the cab window as John and Hayter laughed about their army days. They were riding from Reigate Station to Hayter's estate, where they would be spending the next three nights.

When the cab pulled to a stop, Sherlock jumped out and walked aimlessly towards one side of the house.

"Oh," John remarked, watching him walk away as Hayter paid the cabbie and thanked him.

"Here you are, Watson, this way." Hayter indicated the front of the house with his hand.

"What about Sherlock?" He pointed in the direction Sherlock had walked.

"He can catch up later. I'm sure he's just taking in the sights."

"Alright," John stated somewhat reluctantly.

They walked inside and Hayter gave John a small tour of the house.

"I'm sorry to tell you, Watson, but we're having a bit of renovations done, so we really only have the one guest room available right now."

John stopped in his tracks.

"I mean, you both are welcome to stay here if you'd like, we can set up a lilo if necessary, but there's also an inn located down the street just in case one of you would rather stay there."

"Oh," John stated deflatedly. "If I had known you were having renovations done on your house, I never would have imposed."

"No, really, Watson, it's alright. I just thought you'd be the only one coming, which is why I didn't mention it before, but I thought you should know now that you're both here."

John nodded and sighed. "Well, I'll speak with Sherlock when I find him and we'll decide what to do."

Hayter nodded and continued walking them down the hall. "We've got some time before dinner. Would you like to see the grounds?"

John smiled politely. "Certainly."

 

 

 

 

 

  
Sherlock didn't see John again until after dinner. He had found his way inside the house at some point during the day and was browsing through Hayter's extensive library when John walked in.

"Where did you disappear to?" John asked, a hint of accusation in his voice.

"Enjoyed the sights; breathed in the fresh air. That's what I'm meant to be doing here, isn't it?" Sherlock shot back.

John stood there, saying nothing for a moment. "Hayter only has one room available for us."

Sherlock glanced at John sharply.

John shrugged. "He said he didn't think to tell me because he thought I was coming alone."

Sherlock snorted and looked back at the books. "I'm sure he did."

John frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock looked back at him with condescension. "Come now, John. I may not be a man of metaphors or social cues, but I think I know a come on when I see one."

John looked at him confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Hayter clearly invited you down here in an attempt to woo you."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I'm serious, John."

"What the hell gave you that impression?"

"The entire cab ride, he stopped looking at you for grand total of approximately three minutes."

"He was just being attentive!"

"When shaking your hand, he held on 6.2 seconds longer than the average time."

"That may just be _his_ average time."

"When I left, he made no effort to encourage you to bring me back."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I know you, John, and if he had tried to do so, you would have found me and forced me to join you. As this is the first time I've seen you since we arrived, I can safely say he has made no efforts to include me in your social gatherings."

"Maybe he just knows what a dick you are and that you don't like social gatherings, so he was trying to be polite and give you some space?"

"Then why didn't he mention the renovations?"

"Because he didn't know you were coming. Honestly, if anyone is the wanker in this situation, it's me for not telling him."

"Or it's me for coming."

"You know what, Sherlock? That Paris trip must have fucked your brain up more than we realised because you're way off the mark here. I'm going to bed, and if you'd like to come, Hayter has a lilo you can borrow, or if you'd rather, there's an inn down the street." John stalked away.

Sherlock stood there, pretending to look at the books until John was gone, and then left the room to seek out Hayter. He found him sitting at a desk in a large office.

"I'd like the lilo, please."

"Oh, hello Sherlock. Nice to see you again. Did you enjoy the town?"

"Yes, lovely, wonderful. Lilo, now, please."

Hayter's eyebrows raised. "Don't you think you'd be more comfortable staying in a bed though?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Seeing as I rarely sleep in my own bed, no. I'm more than happy to sleep on the floor and when John wakes up, you can explain to him why you refused to give me the lilo after I asked for it three times."

Hayter smiled and stood up. "Now, now, Sherlock. I meant no offence. I was only thinking of your comfort." He walked out of the room and down the hall with Sherlock in tow. He stopped before a closet and pulled out two boxes, handing them to Sherlock. "The bottom is the lilo, the top is the air compressor."

"Thank you, I certainly wouldn't have been able to figure that out for myself," Sherlock snipped.

Hayter smirked as Sherlock walked away, boxes in hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He opened the door to the guest room that he would be sharing with John. The light was off and John was already in bed, but Sherlock couldn't quite tell if he was asleep or not. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he opened the boxes in the dark and arranged the lilo on the floor. He was just trying to work out how to air up the damn thing without waking John when said man stirred in bed.

"Sherlock, I'm not asleep, you can turn the light on if you need it."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock stated as he stood up and turned on the light. John squinted at the sudden brightness and curled in on himself to block it out. Sherlock found the outlet for the electric pump and began airing it up.

"If you'd rather sleep here, I can take the lilo." John was squinting at Sherlock from under the covers blocking the light out of his face.

"No need to concern yourself, John. Of the two of us, I am the one most used to irregular sleeping patterns and habits. If either of us are better equipped for sleeping here, it's me."

John grumbled a bit and made a token protest. "But you're the one who needs the rest the most to rejuvenate you from that case in Paris. It's the whole reason you came."

Sherlock scoffed as he finished airing it up. "The whole reason _I_ came was to not be separated from you for an extra four days - the mere idea," he shook his head, "absolutely preposterous." He turned off the air compressor and closed the lid on the lilo. "The whole reason _you_ came, however, is a completely different story." He looked up at John with a hint of accusation in his eyes before looking down and putting the air compressor back in the box.

Silence fell upon the them as Sherlock fitted the lilo with a sheet, a blanket, and a pillow. He turned off the light and made himself as comfortable as he could. As he waited for sleep to overtake him, he heard John say softly, "I'm really glad you did come, Sherlock."

Sherlock replied simply, "Of course," before silence fell over them once more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They were all sitting down to breakfast together when a man ran into the room.

"Colonel! Colonel! There's been a murder!"

Sherlock looked up quickly as Hayter replied, "Murder? What're you on about, Stevens?"

"Down on the Cunninghams' estate - Old William Kirwan, J.P.'s groundskeeper!"

"William Kirwan," Hayter whistled. He turned to John. "It's a bad business, Watson, when even the countryside becomes overrun with crime." He turned to Sherlock. "The last two weeks, my neighbors, the Actons, have been robbed on two separate occasions. The thieves took nothing of importance; some twine, candlesticks, a letter weight," he shrugged, "I guess they thought they could sell the metal for scraps?"

"Ah, yes, I know many rag-and-bone men who pay handsomely for twine."

John shot him a glare as Hayter continued. "Bit more serious now than petty theft. What do you think, Sherlock? Going to call local law enforcement and demand they let you see the crime scene straight away?"

"Child's play," Sherlock waved away at the same time John replied, "He should be resting." They looked at each other for a moment as another man walked into the kitchen.

"Inspector Forrester! What brings you by?"

Everyone in the dining room turned to Forrester as he nodded politely to Hayter before looking in Sherlock's direction. "Terribly sorry to interrupt your holiday, Mr. Holmes, but word got around that you were in town, and I thought perhaps you'd be able to help clear up this business over at the Cunninghams'."

"Word travels fast!" John remarked turning back to Sherlock.

"Well, John, it seems your hopes for a quiet weekend are about to be dashed." Sherlock pushed himself away from the table and stood up, turning to Forrester. "Tell me more about the murder on our way to the crime scene."

 

 

 

 

 

  
Sherlock, John, and Forrester arrived at the Cunninghams' estate approximately fifteen minutes later. Hayter stated that John was welcome to stay with him while Sherlock investigated, but John replied that he needed to keep an eye on Sherlock, in case his health failed him. They walked up to the house and met two men at the door; one appeared to be in his early thirties and the other appeared to be in his mid fifties. Forrester walked up and shook both of their hands.

"Terribly sorry to hear the news about William," Forrester stated as John and Sherlock walked up behind him, "but luckily for us, Sherlock Holmes just happens to be in the area and has agreed to help us sort everything out."

Sherlock shook their hands and gestured to John. "This is Doctor John Watson, my professional associate and personal doctor. Anything you say to me may be said before him as well."

John shook their hands, nodding his head and asking politely, "How do you do?"

The younger man stepped forward and held a hand before himself. "I'm Alex Cunningham, and this is my father," he gestured to the older man, "J. P. Cunningham."

"Wonderful. Now, can you show me where the body was found?"

Alex walked them through the house to the back door. "It was right here," he pointed to the stoop just outside the door, "where I saw the murderer wrestling with our groundskeeper, Kirwan. I was upstairs in my room, reading, when I heard a shout for help. I rushed down the stairs," he pointed behind the group to the stairs, "and saw Kirwan fighting with some man. As I was about to enter into the fray, I heard a gunshot, saw Kirwan fall, and saw the murderer run off through the garden and over those hedges." He pointed across the garden to the hedges lining the property. "I stopped to help Kirwan, instead of running after the murderer, so he got away."

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying lens and examined the ground, paying close attention to the area between the door and the hedge. He snapped his magnifying lens closed after a few minutes and turned to J. P. "Did you hear anything while this was occurring?"

J. P. slowly shook his head and his bushy eyebrows lowered. "I am a bit hard-of-hearing, myself, so I heard nothing until the gunshot. When I heard the shot, I looked out my bedroom window and saw someone running across the garden and jumping over the hedge. I went downstairs to find out what happened, but by the time I got down here, Kirwan had passed on." He looked solemnly at the back stoop.

"Approximately what time did this occur?" Sherlock asked Forrester.

Forrester referenced his notepad before responding. "Um, it looks like the 999 call was put in a little after midnight."

Sherlock turned back to the Cunninghams. "Why would the groundskeeper be at your house at midnight?"

Alex started to shrug when Forrester interrupted. "We found this clenched in his hand." He held up a bag marked 'Evidence' that held a torn piece of notepaper inside.

Sherlock took the bag and held it before his eyes. "'At quarter to twelve learn what may be'" Sherlock read aloud. "This writing proves very interesting..." He started to remark before stopping abruptly and standing for some time in silent thought.

The four men watched him, expectantly, before he snapped back to attention. "I must see to some things with Inspector Forrester. John, would you mind waiting here until we return? It should only take us about 30 minutes."

John raised his eyebrows. "You want me to wait here? I could just meet you at Hayter's."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John, it is absolutely imperative that I meet you here." He added belatedly, "If that is alright with you both, of course," turning to the Cunninghams.

J.P. nodded. "Yes, of course. Could I show you around, Dr. Watson?"

"Um, sure." John stated as Sherlock and Forrester took their leave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twenty-five minutes later, Forrester returned to the Cunninghams' sitting room alone.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, standing up, slightly alarmed.

Forrester shook his head gravely as the Cunninghams stood up upon his entrance. "He doesn't seem well, Dr. Watson. He keeps having these fits of silence. At one time, I honestly thought he was going to faint!"

"So, where is he now?" John asked worried.

"He's looking over the garden again. Asked to meet us all here in 30 minutes. Honestly, Dr. Watson, I really think he's suffering from some kind of mental exhaustion."

John nodded and sat back down, glancing out the windows, concern evident upon his face.

Forrester walked further into the room and sat down with the Cunninghams. They sat there, the Cunninghams making small talk with Forrester and John anxiously watching the entryway, as they waited for Sherlock to walk in.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock breezed into the sitting room. "John! Forrester! There is something I must show you in the garden." He quickly walked back out again.

John had stood up the moment Sherlock entered the room and was walking out to follow him before Forrester could do more than sigh and stand up to follow behind as well.

Sherlock was standing over by the hedge when the two arrived. "What do you make of the ground?"

Forrester looked around. "I can see nothing."

"Precisely," Sherlock replied before holding up the evidence bag with the torn note. "What do you make of the note?"

"Obviously, Kirwan was planning to meet someone at a quarter to midnight."

"That does corroborate with the time of death, but do you not see anything more significant about it?"

"The note's torn," John interjected. "Did you accidentally rip it from his hand?"

Sherlock sent John an approving smile.

"No, we pried it from his grip just as you have it."

"So, someone else attempted to rip it from his hands?" John asked Sherlock.

"Precisely. We find the other half of this note and we find the murderer."

"But how are we going to find the note before we find the killer?" Forrester asked exasperated.

"It's just something to think on. Now, another item for thought is why the groundskeeper was at the Cunninghams' at midnight in the first place."

"I would assume the note asked to meet him there."

"Then, why was he found inside the house?"

"The Cunninghams said they thought he was trying to stop a robber, possibly the same man who broke into the Actons house."

"We will need to speak with the Cunninghams again to clear this matter up," Sherlock stated strolling towards the house with John and Forrester following behind. When they walked inside the sitting room, Alex and J.P. quickly stood up.

"You seem unable to make up your mind, Mr. Holmes." Alex sneered. "Not having much luck are you?"

"Actually, we've had quite a bit of luck. Mr. Holmes had an idea about the note--good Lord!" Forrester exclaimed as Sherlock swooned and nearly fainted dead away. He would have fallen backwards onto the floor, had it not been for John's quick reflexes in catching him.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?!" John exclaimed, lowering him to the floor gently and checking his throat for obstructions.

"No, no, John," Sherlock replied faintly, weakly batting John's hands away. "I'm alright, just a dizzy spell." He turned to the Cunninghams. "John will tell you that I've been a bit overworked the past two weeks. I suppose I'm still feeling the effects."

"Should we call for a cab?" J.P. asked.

"I think I shall be alright, but while we're sitting here for a moment, can you explain again why Kirwan was found inside your home? Especially at midnight?"

Alex spoke up. "I believe the burglar that had broken into the Actons' house was breaking into ours as well. Kirwan must have seen him and tried to stop him."

"But you were awake reading in your room, correct?"

"That's right."

"So, how was it that you didn't hear anyone enter your house or rummage through your things? The first thing you said you heard was Kirwan's cry for help. How did you not hear him confront the intruder or the beginning of the fight that ensued?"

"It must have happened too fast. The first thing I heard was Kirwan calling for help."

Sherlock turned to J.P. "And you heard nothing before the gunshot?"

"No, but as I stated, I am quite hard-of-hearing."

"Very well. There is one more point which I would like to make absolutely clear." Sherlock made to stand up, but John held him back. "I am feeling much better, John, thank you. I would just like to clear up this one last matter and then I shall retire for the afternoon."

"Alright," John stated reluctantly, helping Sherlock up.

"I would like to see your bedroom." Sherlock asked J.P.

"M--my bedroom?!" He replied, affronted. "What in god's name for?"

"You stated that you saw the man flee over the hedge after being confronted by your son, correct?"

"Yes?"

"I observed the ground quite closely during my investigation and found a few interesting leads. I would like to be able to see the hedge as you had seen it - from your window."

"Well, I find this to be highly invasive and protest strongly."

"Please, Mr. Cunningham," Forrester interjected. "Mr. Holmes is world-renowned. His methods may seem quirky, but they do get results."

J.P. grumbled a bit more while leading them upstairs to his bedroom. "See?" He remarked frostily, pointing out through his window. "There's the hedge I saw him jump over."

Sherlock walked up and looked out for a moment before turning around. "Thank you," he remarked simply.

"I hope that was informative," J.P. muttered, making to follow Sherlock back downstairs; however, before they could get far, Sherlock collapsed into an end table beside the bed and knocked off of some books and papers onto the floor.

"I'm so sorry!" Sherlock replied embarrassed.

The Cunninghams griped profusely, but everyone helped pick up the mess. Halfway through, Alex declared, "Damn it, where's that bastard gone off to?"

Everyone looked around to see that Sherlock was no longer among them.

"That man has lost his damn senses," Alex stated. "Come on, Dad, let's go see where he went." With that, they left the rest of the papers for John and Forrester to pick up.

"I hate to say it," Forrester remarked, reaching for a book, "but I think they might be right. Mr. Holmes doesn't seem to have been at his best this entire time."

As soon as the words left his lips, a hoarse, strangled voice cried out, "Murder! Murder!"

"Sherlock!" John shouted. Forrester called for back-up as John dropped the papers he was holding and made a mad dash out of the room. He ran across the hall and pushed open a bedroom door. Both Cunninghams were crowded around Sherlock; Alex strangling him with both hands and J.P. holding his arm, attempting to pry Sherlock's fist open. John ran up in an instant and punched Alex in the ear with a strong left hook. Alex fell immediately, clutching his ear. Forrester walked in just as John was grabbing J.P., attempting to pry him off of Sherlock.

"Ah, Forrester," Sherlock coughed, "arrest these men."

"What?!" Forrester cried. "On what charges?"

"For the death of William Kirwan."

Forrester shook his head in disbelief. "What are you on about?"

Sherlock freed his arm from J.P.'s grasp, which had significantly slackened, but not completely let go when Forrester had walked in the room. "See for yourself." He handed a piece of paper to Forrester.

Forrester grabbed it and looked it over. "The second half of the ripped note!" He exclaimed.

"If you compare the writing, they will match both Alex and J.P. Cunningham. They each took it in turns writing a word, so their handwriting wouldn't be as noticeable."

"But, but why?"

"Land disputes. The Actons had done a land survey and discovered that the Cunninghams were living on part of their property. The Cunninghams have not been doing well financially this year, and the loss of the disputed land would have been a significant one. The Cunninghams were the ones who broke into the Actons' house, in a failed attempt to find the survey and take it, but they were interrupted, so they grabbed some random items to make it look like a burglary."

"But how does that tie in with William Kirwan?"  
  
"Somehow, he discovered what the Cunninghams had done and was most likely blackmailing them to give him money."

"So, they lured him out here and murdered him?"

"Precisely."

They stood in silence some time, Alex still clutching his right ear and J.P. looking forlornly at the door, as Forrester's back-up arrived and walked into the room.

Sherlock nodded to the room in general and made to leave, but before doing so, he stopped beside Forrester and murmured, "The plan to murder the groundskeeper was clearly concocted by the son. J.P. must have been an unwilling participant." He gave Forrester a significant look. "I hope you'll keep that in mind."

Forrester nodded as his officers placed the Cunninghams in handcuffs. 

Sherlock smiled tightly and left the room with John in tow.


	15. Revelation

By the time they returned to Hayter's estate, lunch was long over and it was quickly nearing dinner. Sherlock and John walked into their shared guest room, tensions slightly high.

"John?" Sherlock tried. John had been quiet ever since rushing into the room and forcing Alex Cunningham off him. "Are you alright?"

John stood facing the window; back to Sherlock. "I thought you were being murdered." He took in a shaky breath. "I guess I finally understand your reaction when you thought I had gotten shot by one of the Garrideb brothers." He huffed out an insincere laugh.

Sherlock remembered chasing the brothers through the streets, splitting up, hearing a gunshot and John crying out, running back to John as fast as he could to stop, stop, _stop_ the blood from seeping out of his body. He involuntarily shuddered. "Come over here," he stated before he realised he was saying anything.

John turned around and looked at him for a moment before complying.

Sherlock grabbed the back of John's neck with one hand and pulled him into a full embrace - both arms wrapped around his shoulders, head resting against John's head. John stood there, motionless, for a moment before returning the embrace and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back.

They stood there, leaning against each other and offering their support, for some time. Sherlock began stroking John's shoulders with his open palm in an effort to soothe him. He kept this up with his right hand before adding his left hand minutes later. John continued standing there, resting against Sherlock, arms wrapped around his back, while Sherlock rubbed over his shoulders and down his spine to the top of his sacrum with open-palm caresses. His caresses slowly became firm strokes, which then turned into kneading, and the next thing Sherlock knew, he was doing his damnedest to massage John's muscles, backwards, while standing up. By this point, John was fully slumped against Sherlock and had been emitting gentle murmurs of contentment, arms still wrapped around Sherlock's back, but hanging loosely, lightly resting atop the swell of Sherlock's arse.

"Here," Sherlock rumbled, disentangling himself from John as John grumbled discontentedly, "it's much easier to do this if you're laying down. Take your shirt off - all those layers get in the way."

John looked at him for a moment as though he were about to protest, but in the end, he said nothing and did as asked.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure why, but he was completely unable to look away from John's torso as John removed his shirt. His body looked much the same as it had nearly a year and a half ago, but Sherlock noted every slight change. The skin was not as tan, muscles not as defined, and there was a bit more hair on his chest than last time he saw him. Sherlock had a fleeting thought of running his fingers through that hair when he realised that John was standing there, watching him.

"Apologies, John." He waved an arm to the bed. "Please lie down."

John watched him a moment longer before complying. "No accent this time?" He joked, settling on his stomach.

Sherlock sat down on the bed beside him. "You would prefer I do accent?" Sherlock remarked, running his palms along John's shoulders, slipping back into his role as Sergei with ease.

John huffed out a breath. "Damn, Sherlock." He shook his head. "You have a phenomenal knack for getting into someone's head and never getting out."

"Mmm, figurative language, John. I tell you, I prefer literal - no figurative." He ran his thumbs up John's neck as he continued kneading his shoulders.

John laughed. "Maybe could you not do Sergei? Do someone else. Who were you in Paris?"

"I was mostly myself," Sherlock stated, voice rumbling in his normal baritone before switching to a higher-pitched, airy voice. "'Ow-ev-aire, ah did need tou goh un-daire cov-aire won-ce or tw-ice." His hands ran along John's shoulders, fingers trailing behind.

" _Jesus_ , Sherlock." John rubbed his forehead against the pillow and shifted his body around on the bed. "Is there anything you can't do?"

Sherlock slipped back into his normal voice. "Everyone has something they can't do, John. For example, I have yet to figure you out." His voice drifted off as the world began fading away at the edges - blackness crowding in at the seams. He felt his body being pulling away slightly causing his hands to brush down John's back. 

"Me?" John asked through an increasing swell of white-noise. "What's there to figure out about me?"

John's voice slowly faded into nothing as Sherlock became hyper-focused on the body lying before him. He was overcome with the desire to taste him. It was the strangest sensation he had ever felt. As he ran ethereal palms slowly up, across, down, and over John's skin, he wanted nothing more than to bend over and lick up John's back, starting at the lumbar vertebrae and ending at the cervical vertebrae. His mouth watered at the thought.

No. No, what he _really_ wanted was to bite John. He wanted to bite that trapezius muscle - just sink his teeth into it - not enough for it to bleed, but enough for John to feel it. _Then_ , he wanted to run his tongue along John's skin and feel the indentations left behind by his teeth. It was almost an overpowering urge. He grasped John's lower back and barely stopped himself from bending over and doing just that. He sat there for a moment, fingers pressing hard into John's back, breathing deep and slow, trying to regain control.

His eyes flitted to John's head and he had a vision of carding his fingers through John's short hair - feeling the silky smoothness of it as they slid through. He thought about fisting his hands in it and pulling John's head closer to - to what? Sherlock wasn't sure, but he definitely knew he wanted to fist his hands in John's hair and pull him closer. It was an odd idea, but he thought vaguely of embedding his nose deep into John's hair and taking a deep breath in. John always smelt nice, but his hair was Sherlock's favourite. It always smelt so crisp and clean with an undertone of something that Sherlock associated with home. His hands remained locked onto John's lower back as he dropped his head upon his chin, closing his eyes and continuing to breathe deeply. His arms were slightly shaking. All he wanted at that moment was to grab John's head, bury his nose in John's hair, and inhale a large lung-full of John's scent. He wanted it more than anything.

He opened his eyes and saw his hands placed upon John's lower back, fingertips gripping John so desperately that they were turning white. His gaze fell to John's arse and the jeans he was wearing. They were slung a bit low on his hips and lay pleasantly tight. No, what he really, _truly_ wanted was to bite John's arse. That gluteus maximus muscle was just _begging_ to be bitten - it looked so pert and full with so much skin and muscle there to grab and explore. He wanted to bite it - to feel the muscle between his teeth. He wanted to suck on John's skin and lick over it to feel the ridges his teeth had left behind. He wanted to run his hands down to John's hips and grab him so tightly that he left red marks that would stay on John's skin for days. He would have given anything, anything in the world to run the length of his body against John's. _That_ was what he wanted. He wanted to slide his chest up the back of John's legs, over the swell of his arse, along the curve of his spine, to the top of his head until John was completely covered by Sherlock. He wanted to bite John's neck, his ears, his cheek, his lips. Yes. Yes, _that's_ what he wanted. If he could only have one thing, he would want to bite John's lips until they opened. He wanted to thrust his tongue inside and map out every inch and corner of John's mouth. He wanted to graze his tongue along John's more than he wanted anything else in his life; more than eating, sleeping, breathing. He wanted to feel John's tongue brush against his in deep, slow strokes. _That's_ what he would pull John closer to do. He would grip his hair, pull his head closer, and bite his lips until they opened then thrust his tongue inside and brush it against John's tongue.

His cock throbbed painfully. _Oh god_. Sherlock nearly fell forward as the blood rushed to his penis to thicken and harden it. _Oh god_ , he wanted John. He wanted John like he wanted triple homicide cases. He wanted John like he wanted unending serenades on his violin. He wanted John like he wanted air. He wanted to rut against him like a wild animal. He wanted to line himself up with John, take them both in hand and stoke them both together. He wanted to wrap himself around John, until there was not an inch of space between them, and rub against him, grasping his back and kissing, licking, biting any speck of skin he could reach. He wanted to breech John, and feel himself being slowly engulfed by tight, warm, heat. He wanted to surround himself, drown himself in John. There was nothing - nothing - but John and need and want and John and desire and need and John and John and John and John.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock struggled to come back to awareness. John was propped up on his elbows, turned around looking at him with concern on his face.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Are you okay? Did you just have a petit mal seizure?"

Sherlock was still having difficulty breathing and was gripping John's back as if his life depended on it - he was fairly certain it did. "What?" He breathed out heavily.

"You just stopped for about 20 seconds or so. I kept trying to call your name, but you weren't responding. Are you alright? I think I should check you over - you're looking a bit flushed."

Sherlock was still struggling to concentrate. 20 seconds??? It felt like hours to Sherlock. Erotic images of John kept replaying in his brain, and his cock was rock hard, leaking so much precum that Sherlock could feel it dripping down his head. "No." He continued breathing hard, grasping at straws for something to divert John's attention from him. "No, it's - I'm fine, just - a moment, please give me a moment." He tried desperately to stop the images from repeating in his brain so he could get his breathing under control.

 _God!_ He wanted to fuck John so badly. He just wanted to pull those damn, sexy jeans off, spread John's cheeks apart, and push right in.

"Ahh!" He shouted, finally removing his hands from John's back to claw desperately at his hair.

John sat up immediately and took Sherlock's head in both hands. "Alright, Sherlock, that's it. There's obviously something going on. You're clearly in pain. Let me help."

Sherlock resolutely kept his eyes squeezed shut and both hands locked in his hair as he shook his head. "I promise you John, if you'll let me be, I will be alright." He said through gritted teeth.

John was about to protest again, but a knock sounded at the door.

"Are you both alright?" Hayter called through the door.

"Yeah, there's something wrong with Sherlock. I'm trying to figure out how to help." John called back.

"Sherlock? Can I get anything for you?" Hayter called, politely.

Sherlock just gritted his teeth and pulled on his hair harder.

"Um, no, I think we're alright." John answered for him.

"Okay. Just letting you know, Watson, dinner will be ready in about five minutes."

"Thank you. We'll be down."

They heard Hayter's footsteps walking down the hall as he left the doorway.

John turned back to Sherlock, who didn't seem much better. "I'm getting my kit." He let go of Sherlock's face and walked across the room to his rucksack where he packed his first aid kit. He pulled it out and carried it back to Sherlock, whose grip had slightly eased on his hair. John placed his palm against Sherlock forehead and neck and Sherlock's death grip on his hair returned. "You don't feel like you're running a fever, but I'll check. Open up, Sherlock."

With John standing shirtless before Sherlock, who was still sitting on the bed, John's bare stomach was about eye level with Sherlock's head. Sherlock's eyes briefly glanced down the line of John's darkened hair to John's cock and images of John guiding himself into Sherlock's mouth, telling him to "open up," bombarded Sherlock's brain. He huffed out a breath as another wave of intense arousal rolled through his body.

John took that huff as compliance and placed the thermometer inside Sherlock's mouth. "Close," John stated simply and Sherlock groaned again. John shot him an odd, concerned look as he reached for the penlight in his kit. "Alright, Sherlock, I'm going to check your eyes."

Sherlock knew that he was doomed. His pupils were bound to be fully dilated. John would know what that meant. Sherlock wasn't sure exactly how John would react, but he _had_ to know what that meant.

"Alright," John stated as he held one eye open and passed the light back and forth to check for dilation. He did the same to the other eye as the thermometer beeped. John took the thermometer out. "37.3 - on the higher scale of average, but not too high. Eyes are also more dilated than average, but still respond appropriately to light." John placed his fingers on either side of Sherlock's neck, delicately feeling just under his chin.

It took everything in Sherlock's willpower to not react in any way. To not reach out and grab John's bare torso, pull him forward, and run his tongue along John's skin.

"Sherlock, you haven't taken any drugs or medication, have you?"

Sherlock shook his head 'no.' He didn't trust his voice at the moment.

"Lymph nodes feel fine," John sated, releasing his neck and grabbing his wrist. John looked at his watch and took Sherlock's pulse. His eyebrows shot up almost immediately, but he didn't say anything until he was finished. "Your pulse is racing, Sherlock. 185 - that's pretty damn fast." He squinted his eyes at Sherlock again. "Sherlock, are you sure you haven't taken anything. Nothing at all?"

"No, John," Sherlock replied meekly, though he wasn't sure if that might not be a better alternative: for John to believe drugs as the source of Sherlock's odd behaviour than the actual reason.

John watched him a moment longer before stating. "Alright, well, I'm not sure what's going on, but I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone right now. Personally, I'm famished. Would you come down and eat with us?"

Sherlock really considered saying "no," but he knew John. He knew that if he did not go, that John would not go, and he knew that John needed to eat, so, reluctantly, he agreed.

"Okay, I'll let Hayter know and you can meet me down there," John stated as he pulled his shirt back on. "If you take longer than 3 minutes, I'm going to come back up here."

Sherlock knew he meant it. "Okay, John." He managed to eek out.

John took one last glance at him before nodding and walking out the door.

Sherlock promptly fell upon the bed, unconsciously pressing his erection into the mattress. Oh god, _John!_ Sherlock had never been quite so overwhelmed as he had been at that moment. Sherlock thought through everything he wanted to do with John again. His pressing into the mattress became a bit more insistent and he began rolling his hips against the bed. God! But he wanted John. He wanted to strip the man of every last stitch of clothing and taste everywhere. He wanted to run his fingers along John's skin and feel the difference between his smooth scapulae and his coarse, hairy chest. He groaned and unsnapped his trousers, reaching a hand inside to grab himself and start stroking. He was so wet with sweat and precum, his hand slid easily up and down his shaft. John. Oh, John. He wanted John to do this. He wanted John to come to him, arousal in his eyes, unzip Sherlock's trousers, and take him out before gently stroking him up and down. Sherlock turned his face deep into the pillow and moaned, speeding up his strokes. Oh, John would be perfect at this -  _perfect_. His rough, calloused hands would add an extra layer of sensation that would remind Sherlock that John was the one pleasuring him. Sherlock thrust his arse back to give him more room as he pumped faster. John. John with his blonde hair and blue eyes. John with his sturdy body and steady hands. Sherlock's breathing increased as his hips started to thrust, hand slowly losing coordination as he neared orgasm. John with his insights and redirections. Sherlock hovered just on the brink, body shuddering, hand pumping, hips thrusting. John with his praise and admiration.

"Gaaahhhh!" Sherlock shouted as his orgasm overtook him. Stream after stream of ejaculate pulsed out as Sherlock lay there shaking profusely. His brain had very nearly gone offline. The one thought he had as his body slowly calmed into small infrequent shudders was the fact that John would be coming back up if Sherlock was not in the kitchen in less than 2 minutes. With great reluctance, Sherlock pulled himself off the bed, removed his pants and trousers, wiped the duvet with his clothes, stuffed the soiled pair in his bag, and pulled out clean clothes to put on. Just as he was reaching for the handle to leave, the door swung open and John stepped in.

"Oh! Sherlock. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't passed out on us."

"No, John, I am perfectly fine."

John looked him over once before stepping aside. "Well then, shall we?"

"After you," Sherlock stated simply.

John walked down the hall with Sherlock behind, worrying slightly about the tight feeling he had in his chest.


	16. Acceptance

Sitting through dinner was a horrendous affair. Neither Hayter nor Sherlock could keep their eyes off of John and John seemed determined to do his damnedest to ignore the both of them. Sherlock's brain was working triple time; analyzing Hayter's remarks and gestures towards John, observing and recording every statement and movement John made, and attempting to determine what the _hell_ just happened upstairs. Sherlock could barely focus on his food and John had to remind him on three separate occasions to eat.

When it was finally over, Sherlock shot out of the house as quickly as he could. The atmosphere was suffocating and Sherlock needed to work through what happened before he could face John alone again. He needed to get his facts straight.

The sun was still shining - not destined to set for another few hours - as Sherlock walked along the grounds aimlessly. What the _hell_ had happened in there? Well, obviously, Sherlock understood the biological side of it: neurons released nitric oxide into his bloodstream, causing his blood vessels to relax and allowed his penis to harden. Repeated stimulation resulted in prostate and seminal gland contractions, which ended in ejaculation. Nothing new, or even interesting, there. No, it was the thoughts and images of John he had before and during stimulation that he was confused about. He had always cared for John - from the first day he saw him at that god-forsaken massage parlor and John had surprised him with his astuteness and praise, he cared for him - but he had never, _never_ thought of John in a sexual manner before.

Well, yes, okay, there had been a few instances during his time as Sergei where his massage might have possibly been something less of a massage and more of a caress. And then, okay, there may have been a couple of times where he reached out and touched or grabbed John when he didn't necessarily need to. And, thinking back on it now, there _had_ been that time he was working on an experiment - collecting data for cigarette ash distinction - and had been thinking about John when his body suddenly convulsed violently, knocking the cigarette contraption onto the floor. He remembered seeing the flames, grabbing his mobile, and texting John because he just happened to be on Sherlock's mind at the time.

Sherlock continued walking across a field to god-knows-where.

Had he always felt this way towards John, then? Not the emotional connection he felt, he knew that had been there since day one, but this overwhelming sexual desire? At the time, he was too aroused to consider the idea properly. Sherlock knew that he had always felt John was perfect, or near perfect, in every sense of the word. Above average intelligence, skilled in fighting, addicted to adventure (much like Sherlock himself), and clearly enjoyed Sherlock's company. But the thoughts that pushed him over the edge, coarse hands - perfect for stroking Sherlock to orgasm, lips - perfect for Sherlock to kiss and press his tongue through, taunt muscles - perfect for grabbing, biting, and sucking, those were the thoughts that confused Sherlock. He had never consciously thought that way about John before. Perhaps he had always done so subconsciously? He thought back to all of the times he caught himself staring at John, or reaching out to touch him, or leaning into him, or thinking about him late at night.

He stopped beside a tree and looked forward, unseeing, as he replayed the last year and a half of his association with John in his head.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but by the time he returned to awareness, the sun had set and night was in full effect. He glanced around, not quite sure where he was, when he heard a familiar voice beside him.

"Back with us?"

He turned to the left and there, in the moonlight, stood John Watson. The tight sensation in his chest returned.

"Apologies, John," he said, much more steady than he felt, "I did not realise you had followed me."

John smiled. "Well, you've been acting very strange ever since you returned from Paris. As your _personal doctor_ , it would be remiss of me to let you wander unfamiliar areas alone." His smile dropped and his voice turned serious. "Honestly, Sherlock, are you alright? I didn't see you for about two weeks, you worked yourself ragged with little food and sleep, pushed your mental capabilities to their limit, and then you returned and had two fainting spells and one probable petit mal seizure. I know you think you're above it all, but these are some serious symptoms." He took a breath before continuing. "I'd like to schedule an MRI."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, John."

"It isn't ridiculous. Sherlock, your brain is your greatest asset, don't you want to make sure it's healthy?"

At moments like this, Sherlock found it difficult to believe that he placed John in the 'Above Average Intelligence' group. He frowned at him for a moment before clarifying. "I was faking the fainting spells at the Cunninghams' estate. I thought that would have been fairly obvious."

John watched him, skeptically. "You were faking?"

"Yes, John! Faking! That thing I do to get information I need from people. Forrester was about to reveal vital information regarding the note to the suspects. I had to divert their attention away from Forrester in such a way that would stop them from thinking further on what he was going to say. Then, when we were in the bedroom, I had to divert everyone's attention, so I could search Alex Cunninghams' room to find the other half of the note."

"And the seizure?"

Sherlock's shoulders fell, defeated. "That was..." he hesitated, "something else," he finished lamely.

"Something else?"

"Yes, not important. Shouldn't happen again."

"Wouldn't you rather know and be sure it won't happen again?"

"Gah, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. "I promise, if it ever happens again, you can perform an MRI on me then, but I guarantee you, the..." he shuddered "... _seizure_ was just a one-off. It honestly shouldn't happen again."

John watched him in the moonlight - a slightly desperate plea crossed over Sherlock's face. "Yeah," John reluctantly acquiesced, "alright. But I swear, Sherlock, the _very next time_ that happens, I am pulling your arse in for an MRI."

"Of course, John." Sherlock placated, relieved.

They stood there, staring at each other. Sherlock was just noting how the moon reflecting off of John's hair gave him a sort of ethereal glow, when John piped up. "Well, we should probably get back. Hayter must think we are the worst guests - running off to solve crimes, only stopping in to eat." He laughed in a self-deprecating manner.

"Of course, John." They turned and walked down the path, John leading the way.

 

 

 

 

 

  
When they returned, the house was dark, but the front door was unlocked. Sherlock and John let themselves in and locked the door behind them. They quietly made their way up to the guest room and readied themselves for bed. As Sherlock settled on the lilo, John clicked off the light. They both lay in relative silence; making small adjustments and clearing throats before settling in for the night. As unconsciousness slowly enveloped him, Sherlock heard John faintly murmur, "I'm sorry I talked you into this. We should have just stayed home." Sherlock wanted to reassure him, but fell into a deep sleep before he was able to do so.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The following morning, at breakfast, Sherlock convinced John to spend the day with Hayter. He stated that he wanted to collect some mud and moss samples to expand his monograph on soil composition. John was reluctant to leave him alone at first, but with some persuading from Hayter, finally agreed to leave Sherlock to it. Much of the day was spent quietly and Sherlock tried not to dwell on his new-found physical attraction to John too much. At the end of the day, Sherlock joined John and Hayter for dinner and then retired alone to the library. He had pulled down an old book on the techniques and merits of beekeeping and was sat upon one of the armchairs in the room, flipping through it earnestly, when John walked in.

"Ah, good evening, John. Lose at cards already?" Sherlock glanced up at his entrance, but quickly returned his attention to the book.

John huffed out a strained laugh and shook his head. "Not quite."

Sherlock glanced back up at that. John looked distinctly uncomfortable and for a brief, horrifying moment, he thought John found out about Sherlock masterbating to erotic thoughts of him, but the moment passed when John walked up to him and began speaking.

"So, I think you might be right..." he nodded behind him, "about Hayter, I mean. I don't just mean in general."

"Ah," Sherlock replied, quickly bringing himself back, "said something, did he?" A sick feeling arose in his stomach.

"Well, not _exactly_. But when we were playing cards just now, he just, I don't know, had a certain _look_ about him and when he was taking the cards, he grabbed my hand. I mean, it could have been nothing, but I was thinking about what you said and all these little things he was doing kept adding up. I wasn't sure what to do or say, so I just excused myself and came here."

Sherlock watched him, not sure what to say, himself.

"Well," John continued a bit awkwardly, "I don't really know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you need me to reassure you that you were right, I just..." he shrugged, "felt that I should."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, John. Thank you for admitting that I'm never wrong."

John barked out a laugh. "Tosser."

"Did you want to leave?"

"No! Give me some credit for not being a complete wanker. I'm not going to skulk out a day early just because I think my mate might be attracted to me. I mean, I kept coming back to the Zen when I thought you were interested in me, didn't I?" He paused for a moment. "I mean Sergei, you know, whoever."

The blood drained from Sherlock's face and he was grasping for something to say, but John kept going.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. I know you don't really feel things that way. It's all... fine." He sighed. "We're leaving tomorrow. I'm not going to be a complete dick and leave a night early because I think someone might be making advances towards me." He stood there, watching Sherlock for a moment, who watched him back. "Well," he said after some time had passed, "I'm a bit knackered. I think I'll head up to bed."

Sherlock closed the book. "I'll join you." He flustered a bit. "I mean, I'll come with you. To the room! To sleep. You in your bed, me on the lilo. For sleeping."

John gave him a odd look, but said nothing more than, "Okay?"

Sherlock put the book away and walked upstairs with John.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The following morning passed by uneventfully. John and Sherlock ate breakfast with Hayter, said their goodbyes, and rode home quietly together. When they arrived at Waterloo Station at 10:30, Sherlock was a bit surprised when John walked with him to the front of the station and into the same cab.

John saw the look of surprise on his face and replied sheepishly, "I have to work at the surgery at one. I thought you'd be alright with me spending the next few hours at Baker Street. You know, I'm still concerned about your health."

It was obviously a lame excuse and everyone knew it, so Sherlock spoke quickly to alleviate John's discomfiture. "Of course, John. I do believe I have stated before that you are welcome to visit any time."

John nodded and looked out the window as the cab sped along the streets, carrying them both to Baker Street.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Sherlock grasped the violin delicately; fingertips dancing gently along the fingerboard, bow pulled smoothly over the strings with flourishes. He stood there, playing the composition he had been working on for months, nearly finished now. He stared ahead, heart and soul bleeding into the notes. Idiom. Disgusting. But it appeared as though John did those things to him. Sherlock watched him as he played - sat upon his red armchair, head leaned back, eyes closed, small smile stretched over his lips.

 _God_ , those lips. It had been a week since they had returned from Hayter's estate, and in that time, Sherlock often found himself staring at them. John had the most endearing quality of licking them often and every swipe of tongue only increased Sherlock's desire to do the same to John with his own tongue. He closed his eyes - the music swelled and Sherlock's body ached as a wave of arousal passed over him. He continued playing; bright, uplifting, imploring notes eking out as he sought to get his body back under control.

The past week had been a study in bodily control. He had never before realised just how close John often stood next to him or just how often they made seemingly inconsequential, light touches. He constantly needed to stop himself from just grabbing the man and pulling him tight against himself. He had tried not to think about John in a sexual way, but there had been several mornings where he woke up panting, pressing his incessant erection against the mattress, tail end of his erotic dream dissipating into thin air with just the thought of John lingering behind. It never took long for Sherlock to bring himself to orgasm afterwards, and while he tried not to think about John as he did so, he often found that he couldn't help himself.

He opened his eyes again as he worked his fingers up the neck and slowed the strokes of his bow. The timbre of the composition changed from full, robust, and warm to a slow, mournful yearning. Sherlock felt his chest constrict - a rather familiar feeling by this time - as he recalled the conversation he had with John their last night at Hayter's estate. It was clear by John's reaction and what he had said that he was not interested in any form of romantic engagements with Sherlock. Intellectually, he understood this, but that didn't stop his brain from conjuring up sexually explicit scenes of him and John together late at night, which only served to highlight the longing he keenly felt whenever he was in John's presence. Sherlock had never experienced anything quite like it before - he had no precedent to fall back on regarding how to handle the situation.

As the ending notes dolefully drifted away, Sherlock turned to the window and an air of melancholy settled heavily over the room. They remained together - Sherlock at the window, John in the chair - for some time, the heavy atmosphere pressing in on Sherlock from all sides.

Finally, John breathed out long and slow. "God, Sherlock. That was fucking beautiful."

Sherlock turned around and met his gaze - John's eyes were warm and bright. He could do nothing more than stare.

John smiled and shook his head a bit. "Fucking beautiful," he repeated. "Do you have a title yet?"

"Violin Sonata in C Minor," he stated simply.

John laughed. "We really need to work on your titling skills. 'The Step-Father,' 'Munro,' 'Violin Sonata in C Minor.' A song like that deserves a proper title."

"I can think of no title more proper that stating precisely what it is."

"That piece is filled with romance, emotion, feeling - the title should represent that."

"Well, John, what title would you suggest?"

"I'll think of something."

"I await your decision with bated breath." Sherlock replied, a bit sardonically.

John laughed and after a few beats, Sherlock joined in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It always makes me happy to see you eat."

John and Sherlock were sat at the kitchen table, dinner plates set before them and Sherlock's most recent experiment momentarily pushed to the side. They had just finished a rather interesting case involving a man stabbed to death with his own harpoon. John was as invaluable as ever and didn't make so much as a token protest when Sherlock simply assumed he would be coming round to Baker Street for a late dinner.

"You seem to forget that I have nothing against food as a rule. I just prefer to not let it hinder my cognitive abilities while working."

John scoffed. "If that were the case, you'd think you'd _want_ to eat while working. I can think of nothing more distracting than being hungry. Especially, if it's a constant hunger that never gets fed." He looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock read something in John's eyes and decided it was chastisement. "I assure you, John. I am quite capable of caring for myself. I have survived for many years and am likely to survive for many more."

"There's a difference between surviving and living, Sherlock."

"What a ridiculous statement."

John laughed, shook his head, and turned away.

Sherlock was certain he was missing something, but could not for the life of him determine what it was.

"Anyway," John continued, "I think you still owe me a movie night. Last time we tried, you fell asleep."

Sherlock groaned. "Honestly, John, must we?"

"Yes. You'll like it, Sherlock. It has a faked death, American and Soviet spies, and the attempted start of World War III."

"Oh yes," Sherlock remarked, sarcastically, "sounds just my type of film."

"Get on with it." John waved him to the sitting room as he stood up and collected the dishes off the table to carry them to the sink.

Sherlock reluctantly moved to the sitting room and turned on the television. He flipped to the Google Play screen as John rinsed the dishes. It all felt so... domestic. _Pleasantly_ domestic. Sherlock didn't necessarily want to watch whatever insipid film John had in mind, but he did quite enjoy the sense of camaraderie that fell over the two whenever they spent their evenings in together. He moved to the sofa as John walked in and took over setting up the television. _You Only Live Twice_ popped up on the screen and Sherlock inwardly sighed.

John clicked "play," turned off the lights as the intro started, then joined Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock vaguely recalled the last time they sat and watched a film together - the memory slightly hazy due to the alcoholic influences of the wine, but Sherlock could swear that John was sitting just as close to him now as he had been then. John's warmth radiated from him and Sherlock was hyper aware of every inch of John's body that was pressed against him - shoulder, elbow, hip, and knee. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists together as his body was wracked with intense desire. He took a deep breath in to calm himself down, but that turned out to be a tremendous mistake because he could smell John's cleanliness - his soap, shampoo, deodorant - and that only served to heighten his arousal even more.

He felt John's body shake with laughter, which broke him out of the seductive spell he had been under. Sherlock turned to John who was watching the film, enrapt. He looked back at the television - two men were being washed by a group of scantily clad women. Before he realised he was going to say anything, Sherlock stated, "John, I really think you should reconsider moving in."

Surprised by the non sequitur, John turned to Sherlock. "What?"

"I've been doing some research. The monthly rent of a bedsit in your area is £1,100. You told me that you pay £150 a month for an Oyster card and utilities are generally around £200 a month. All combined, that adds up to approximately £1,450 that you are currently paying each month. I've spoken with Mrs. Hudson and she has agreed to lower the monthly rent here for you from £1,600 to £1,300. I've already told you that you could reduce your Oyster card payment to £125 a month if you lived here, and our current utilities are approximately £200, which I don't expect to change much seeing how you stay here most of the time anyway. We would be able to split that, which would reduce your utility payment to £100 a month. That would all add up to £1,525 each month if you lived here. Admittedly, that is a £75 a month difference, but if you take into account the fact that I would be purchasing the groceries, so you would not need to, I think the additional £75 would balance out."

John sat there, staring at him for a moment as the movie continued playing in the background.

"It only makes logical sense for you to reside here, John," Sherlock implored.

A grin spread across John's face. "You ridiculous man. You actually went and spoke with Mrs. Hudson about my living here?"

A flush crept along Sherlock's cheeks.

"And even negotiated a reduction in the rent to make it affordable for me to move in?"

"She owed me a favour," Sherlock stated simply.

John barked out a laugh. "You are an absolute lunatic." He shook his head. "Yes, alright. I'll speak with the landlord tomorrow morning about relocating."

Sherlock released a breath he didn't realise he had been holding in and nodded in a business-like manner. "Very good, John," he stated more steadily than he truly felt.

John chuckled and shook his head again before leaning back against the sofa to finish watching the movie.

Sherlock thought he felt John relax against him, but decided he probably just imagined it.


	17. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Slightly graphic description of violence, animal abuse, and death.

Sherlock helped John move his things in the following week, and somehow, they managed not to kill each other. Not only was it the end of July, but it was also the hottest day London had experienced in ten years. As if that didn't make the moving process more grueling, John had taken to stripping down to just a vest to combat the heat. His skin was flushed and sweaty due to physical exertion and his hair stuck up in small, sweaty spikes every time John ran his fingers through it. Sherlock's body felt over-heated and jittery for a completely different reason and he quickly discovered how uncomfortable and difficult it was carting around heavy boxes with an intense erection. He kept trying to get away for a few moments, if only to alleviate the pressure built up in his cock, but every time he turned around, John was there with another box and a short temper himself.

Sherlock recalled a specific moment when he thought for certain Lestrade would have a double homicide case on his hands. They were at John's bedsit, loading the moving van with John's boxes, when the heat finally became too much for Sherlock. He had already removed his jacket, rolled up both sleeves, and unbuttoned his shirt all the way to the bottom of his sternum. He was still sweating profusely and truly felt he was in danger of heat stroke. John had removed his outer shirt thirty minutes ago, so Sherlock decided to follow John's lead. He placed the box he was carrying down on the pavement just long enough to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way and peel the damn thing off.

John stopped abruptly behind him. "What are you doing?" He accused.

Sherlock threw the drenched shirt to the ground, disgusted. "Trying to not die of heat stroke." He glanced back at John. Damn, sexy John with his vest clinging to his torso and his hair all in disarray. His face all flushed, his breathing heavy, and eyes so goddamn blue. He glared at John as if he were the epitome of all Sherlock's suffering - which, to be fair, was true to some extent.

John stood there, glaring back at Sherlock's bare chest, breathing hard. "Are - are you fucking kidding me?" He licked his lips before gritting his teeth.

Sherlock was hot, tired, and sexually frustrated. He didn't have the time or patience for John's shit right now. "What?" He cried. "What the hell did I do now?"

John's eyes finally met his and Sherlock could see the ire in them. "You fucking git! You can't just leave my things on the side of the fucking road, so you can take your fucking clothes off and strut around like a fucking wet-dream-come-to-life Penthouse model!" John was clutching the box he was holding so tightly, his arms were shaking.

"You... hypocritical... bloody... pillock!" Sherlock spat back, clenching his fists, so he wouldn't grab John's arms to stop his shaking. "I am trying to help you move your bloody things in this godforsaken heat and not die in the process. How is it acceptable for you to remove your shirt and 'walk around like a fucking wet-dream-come-to-life,'" he mocked, throwing his hands into the air dramatically, "but not me?"

John licked those damn lips again and shook his head, standing rigid and clinging onto his box. Sherlock wanted to shake the bloody wanker. He wanted to grip John's arms so hard that they bruised and then shove him to the ground. He wanted to push that fucking tongue back into that fucking mouth with his own tongue.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, desperately pursed his lips together, and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried his fucking damnedest to get his erection back under control. His fists were shaking at his sides in his effort to keep them from grabbing at John.

"Fuck this!" John cried as he placed his box on the pavement by his feet. "I'm going to get more boxes upstairs. You put these in the van if you can manage to do something fucking productive."

Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at John and make a retort, but John was already walking away up the stairs. He looked down at his erection, then around at the, very public, street, before finally looking over to the boxes. He sighed angrily before walking over to pick up the box he put down and carry it to the van

 

 

 

 

 

  
John's first night at Baker Street as a tenant was not what Sherlock expected it to be. They were both so hot, tired, and frustrated from the move that John excused himself and went up to bed early and Sherlock spent the rest of the night trying very hard not to use John as a catalyst for his sexual gratification and orgasm. However, he couldn't help but hear John moving about upstairs, which reminded him that he was actually living at Baker Street now and only served to heighten his arousal more. He eventually decided to just give in and stroked himself to orgasm while reliving the entire move in his head.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"When you were younger, what did you want to be?"

"I've never harboured the thought that I would be anyone other than myself."

John chuckled. "No, you tosser. Like a career, a job." He waved his hand in the air, unhelpfully. "You know?"

Sherlock frowned at him, taking a sip of his beer before replying. "I've always been partial to the field of piracy."

" _Field_ of piracy," John repeated, amused and just a bit slurred, "you know they work on _ships_ , right? Not much use a ship would be, in a field, you know." He took a sip of beer himself, a much larger sip.

"Mmm," Sherlock acquiesced, eyes closing, "no, ships wouldn't do you much good in a field at all." He glanced across the sitting room at John who was sat in his red chair, a bit askew. He wanted to straighten him out. "Hey," he slurred a bit, "come here, come here." He waved his fingers towards himself as he slid onto the edge of his chair.

"Mmm?" John rumbled, blinking his heavy eyes open.

Sherlock leaned forward some more, practically falling out of his chair, as he reached for John. "You're all... messed up. Come here, let me fix you."

John sniggered like Sherlock had told a good joke. "I've been trying to get you to _fix_ me for a long time now." He slowly sat up and moved to the edge of his chair, leaning towards Sherlock. "We're going to do this now, though? Really?" He made a valiant effort to focus.

Sherlock reached out and smoothed his fingers through John's hair. "Yes, now. You're all sticking up everywhere."

John grinned. "There's one part that's sticking up, alright."

Sherlock looked over his hair again, but couldn't see it.

"You could smooth that out too if you'd like." John caught Sherlock's eye and smiled wickedly.

Sherlock felt a familiar swoop in his stomach and all of his blood seemed to divert to his cock instantly. He placed both hands on John's head to steady himself before running them through his hair again. He ended up making it more of a mess than before. "Can't get it," he murmured to himself, trying to smooth it out again.

"Yeah, I know, Sherlock, it's alright," John sighed defeatedly. "It _will_ be alright," he amended.

What the hell was John going on about? "Here, just let me get this..." He ran his hands down John's neck to smooth over his shoulders, straightening his shirt.

"Mmm, definitely." John wobbled forward a bit more.

Sherlock pulled on John's shirt to untwist it from his side before running his hands down the shirt along his pectoral muscles. His fingertips strayed over the muscles, circling around - to make certain the shirt was straight, of course.

John groaned, "Oh god, Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled his hands, but did not remove them from John's chest, as he looked at him. John's chin and face were lowered down, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was heavy. "John?" He asked, concerned. "Are you alright?"

John huffed out a laugh, keeping his face down, and continued breathing hard.

"Are you feeling ill?" Sherlock amended, running his hands along John's chest to his arms and grasping his biceps firmly.

"Mmm," was the only response John could make.

Sherlock abandoned his chair and knelt down in front of John to look up into his face, hands still grasping his biceps.

John met his gaze and smiled sadly. "Give me a minute, Sherlock," he said quietly. "It's a bit difficult, this."

Sherlock placed his hands on John's knees and frowned in confusion before looking up with concern. "Are you ill? Can I help you?"

The light faded from John's eyes as a corner of his mouth quirked up before instantly falling. "I really don't think you can. I know you want to, but we just can't help who we are."

Sherlock was utterly confused. He was about to ask John to clarify, when John spoke up again.

"I'm just going to... head upstairs. It'll be better in the morning." He patted Sherlock's hand before standing up and slowly walking out of the room.

Sherlock watched him go with a heavy, sinking feeling in his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Honestly, John, _this_ marks the low point of my career." Sherlock jabbed a finger at his computer accusingly.

"What's this?" John asked, walking to the sitting room table to peer at Sherlock's computer over his shoulder.

Sherlock leaned back. "'Dear Mr. Holmes,'" he mocked, ruthlessly, "'I would be grateful if you would let me know whether or not I should accept a job as a nanny. I can stop by Friday, August ninth at ten if you would be kind enough to provide some advice.'" He scoffed and bolted out of his chair, brushing past John during his flight.

"August ninth? That's today."

"Astute as ever, John." Sherlock remarked, pulling his coat on.

John looked at his watch. "And it's just gone ten now."

"Precisely the reason I have somewhere very pressing to be somewhere else. Afternoon, John!" He stated, opening the door.

A young woman, mid to late twenties, was stood on the other side. "Oh! Mr. Holmes!" She exclaimed, surprised. "Thank you so much for meeting with me." She walked past him and entered the room.

Sherlock offered her a insincere smile. "Yes, hello, just leaving, goodbye." He waved his hand through the door.

She turned to look at him, confused, and just over her shoulder, he saw John give him a disappointed look. With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock closed the sitting room door, gestured for the woman to sit, and removed his coat.

She introduced herself as Violet Hunter and explained how she had been looking for work as a nanny when she met Jephro Rucastle, who offered her a live-in position with a £65,000 yearly salary on the condition that she care for his child, engage in eccentric oddities when asked, and cut her hair very short. She balked at the idea at first, but a day later, received an e-mail imploring her to reconsider and even increased her yearly salary by £5,000 to make up for the odd requests. She then stated that she had already decided to accept the job and only hoped for Sherlock's help if she happened to need it in future. Sherlock agreed that he would assist her if she contacted him and, content, she bid them farewell.

"What do you make of it, Sherlock?" John asked as he closed the door behind her.

"Well," Sherlock stated, looking through the window and watching Violet walk away, "it isn't a situation in which I would care to see any sister of mine." He paused for a moment. " _Mycroft_ , perhaps."

John sniggered and Sherlock turned to him with a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

  
To: sh@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: VioletH@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Subject: Experience at Cooper Beeches

Mr. Holmes,

It has been about a week since I moved to Hampshire to begin my new career as a live-in nanny, but it feels as though it has been much longer than that. The child I am caring for is an absolute terror, Mrs. Rucastle is rather judgmental, and Mr. Rucastle suffers from extreme mood swings. One moment, he is the most jovial man I have ever met and the next, he is horrendously mean-spirited and threatening.

When showing me around the estate, Mr. Rucastle led me to the cage of his mastiff. The way they mistreat this poor animal is atrocious. He is consistently underfed and aggravated to keep him mean and hungry. Mr. Rucastle then told me that they let him out to wander the grounds freely at night and heavily implied that I would be viciously attacked if the dog ever caught me wandering around the grounds after curfew.

I have also noticed, when touring the estate, that one of the windows of the upper storey is boarded up. When I asked Mr. Rucastle about it, he brushed it off and quickly changed the topic.

Finally, just this morning, I was asked to put on a long, blue dress and join Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle in the sitting room. They asked me to sit in front of a window and Mr. Rucastle started telling me the funniest stories I had ever heard. This continued for an hour, but right at the stroke of 3:00, he immediately stopped and ordered me back to my room to change.

What would you advise me to do, Mr. Holmes?

Respectfully,  
Violet Hunter

 

 

 

 

 

To: VioletH@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: sh@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Subject: Re: Experience at Cooper Beeches

Ms. Hunter,

You have fallen into deep waters. I will be looking into this case and ask that you continue to be vigilant and keep me apprised of any further updates as they occur.

SH

 

 

 

 

 

  
To: sh@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: VioletH@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Subject: Assistance, Please!

Mr. Holmes,

After weeks of changing into that blue dress and being asked to sit before the window, I was curious to find out who was behind me. Just three days ago, I hid a small mirror in the palm of my hand and as I covered my face to laugh, I looked in the mirror and behind me, I saw a man standing at the edge of the property, looking in. Mrs. Rucastle saw me looking in the mirror and asked Mr. Rucastle to shoo the man away. Mr. Rucastle asked me to do the same and just as I turned around to do so, Mrs. Rucastle closed the curtains.

Then, just this morning, I entered the wing of the house where the blocked off window was located and distinctly saw a shadow pass back and forth under the door. When I ran back to the main floor, Mr. Rucastle caught me and threatened to throw me to his mastiff if I ever went into the wing again.

I am terrified, Mr. Holmes! Please come help!

Violet Hunter

 

 

 

 

 

  
To: VioletH@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: sh@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Subject: Re: Assistance, Please!

Ms. Hunter,

My colleague and I will take the next train to Hampshire.

SH

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Ms. Hunter, would we be able to get into the house at some point today without the Rucastles knowing about it?"

Sherlock and John were walking down the pavement with Hunter.

"Yes, they both have a gala to attend tonight at 6:00. The house should be clear of everyone except for me and their little boy."

"Excellent! Are you able to put him to bed that early?"

"I think so. His typical bedtime is 7:00 - I don't think 6:00 would be too much earlier."

"Perfect. You get him to bed as soon as the Rucastles are out of sight and John and I will meet you at the front door at 6:30."

"Okay."

Sherlock looked at his watch. "It's 11:00 now." He turned back to Hunter. "John and I have some research to do here, we will meet you at the Copper Beeches at 6:30."

She nodded. "Yes, okay. Thank you!" She replied before waving and walking away.

Sherlock turned and strode off in the opposite direction. "Come, John! Let's determine what type of people these Rucastles are."

"Alright." John followed behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The door opened. "Hello Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." Hunter stepped aside to let them in.

"First, show me the room where the Rucastles made you sit at the window."

Hunter nodded and led them through the house into a well-lit room with windows lining one side.

Sherlock rushed in and looked around, peering out the window for some time. "Where exactly did you see the man?"

Hunter walked up and pointed. "Right next to those hedges."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

"Not much of a clear view from the road, is it?" John enquired, peering out of the window beside Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to him and smiled. "No indeed," he agreed before turning back to Hunter. "Now show me the wing of the boarded-off room.

They continued through the house when they heard a loud banging noise.

"Mr. Rucastle! He's come back!" Hunter exclaimed, terrified.

"Hurry! To the room!" Sherlock whispered as they all rushed the remaining distance to the boarded-off room. The door was locked, but John put his shoulder to it and broke it open.

The room was empty.

Just as Sherlock was gearing up to investigate, an older man with a bright red face burst inside.

"Thieves and murderers!" He roared. "What have you done with her?!"

Hunter shrieked and that murderous gaze fixed itself upon her.

"You!" He exclaimed in a rage. "You did this!" He snarled and made to grab at her.

John stepped in quickly, grabbed Rucastle's hand, and immediately twisted it around to put him into a pronating wrist lock. Rucastle struggled, enraged, and tried to free himself.

"What have you done with your daughter, Mr. Rucastle?" Sherlock asked him.

"Me?!" He spat back, looking up from his bent-over position. "You all are the ones who have taken her! She was here not one hour ago!" Without warning, he swung his body around, dragging John with him, and slammed John's shoulder into the corner of the chest of drawers. John grunted in pain, but maintained his grip on Rucastle, keeping him in the wrist hold. Rucastle charged forward, dragging John along, before falling back again, heavily, which caused John to slam into the chest again. Sherlock stepped in to help control Rucastle, but Rucastle used his body momentum to swing John into Sherlock. John finally let go of Rucastle's wrist, and Rucastle fled from the room. "I'll teach you to meddle into my affairs!" He bellowed as he ran down the stairs.

"He's going for the mastiff!" Hunter cried and they raced out of the room after Rucastle. When they reached the back door, they heard a horrendous screaming and were just in time to see the dog viciously shred Rucastle's throat.

Hunter gasped, horrified, and covered her face with her hands. John took out his gun and shot the mastiff in the skull. The dog fell instantly, but Rucastle was already dead.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"His daughter? How could he do that to his own daughter?"

"You saw the type of man he was - clearly more concerned with his own self interests than those of his children. When Hunter told me of the young boy's horrendous behaviour, I immediately questioned the character of the parents."

John smiled before grimacing and rotating his shoulder. "You've always been rather perceptive." The grimace dulled the compliment a bit.

"It was clear that Hunter was meant to impersonate someone; why else would the Rucastles demand that she cut her hair a specific way, wear a specific dress, or sit in a specific place? They were trying to make her look like someone. Who else would reside in the house that matched Hunter's description? Most likely a daughter. A simple check through the birth records show that Rucastle did have a daughter through a previous marriage. The daughter was left a large settlement when the biological mother died and the father seemed determined to keep it."

John's face creased in pain as he arched his back.

Sherlock frowned. Typically, John would sit in amazement, declaring how clever Sherlock was, which not only boosted Sherlock's esteem, but also helped him focus on the case he was reviewing, but now, he couldn't concentrate. All he could do was watch John writhe in pain. Sherlock watched him a moment more before continuing, "Sitting in the window meant they wanted her to be seen, yet her description of them asking her to shoo the man away meant they wanted to give the impression that she didn't want anything to do with him. Looking out the window showed that there wasn't a clear view of street from that point."

"Mmm," John gritted his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck.

Yes, this was definitely not going to work if John didn't get some relief to his shoulder and back. "Therefore, the man was someone who knew the daughter and was devoted to coming round time after time, not just some random stranger."

"Yeah, I thought that was odd. Made me wonder who was walking onto the Rucastles' estate." John arched his back and rolled his neck.

"A suitor, obviously. He must have been watching the house and seen the Rucastles drive away. He then moved a ladder to the boarded up window and helped her escape."

John bent forward, raised his arms straight out, closed his eyes, and breathed out slowly.

"Oh, for god's sake, John! Just take your shirt off already and come with me." Sherlock demanded, standing up and walking to his bedroom.

John froze, but his eyes shot open. "Wh-what?"

"Massage, John!" Sherlock called from the back room. "You can barely attend to what I'm saying and I can't focus with all your stretching and agonizing looks."

John remained sat there for a moment longer, arms stretched forward, before getting up quickly and walking to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock had already removed the duvet and pillows from the bed, so there was nothing more than a sheet on it. Sherlock walked into the bathroom as John slowly unbuttoned and removed his shirt.

He returned with a small bottle of oil in his hands. "Vest too, John. As I stated before it's very difficult to give a massage with clothes in the way." Sherlock couldn't quite meet John's eye and his demanding tone had taken on a softer quality.

John nodded and removed his vest as well, placing it on the floor next to his other shirt. "How do you," he waved a hand over the bed, "want me?" His face reddened.

Sherlock breathed in deeply. "Just lay down on your stomach like you used to John. There's no real difference between now and when I used to do this at the Zen."

John nodded and laid down stiffly on Sherlock's bed; head close to the headboard, arms at his sides.

Sherlock just looked at John for a moment - just appreciated the beauty of the man and body laying before him. Taking another deep breath, he put some oil on his hands and rubbed them together. The atmosphere was heavier this time - there were no jokes or quips thrown about. John lay, completely stationary, on the bed as Sherlock sat beside him and lowered his hands to John's shoulders, arms slightly shaking.

His heart thudded overtime. After months of fantasising, he finally had John in his bed, his bare torso free to explore. He was captivated; spellbound. All of his attention zeroed in on John as he ran his thumbs over his skin, pressing deep into John's trapezius muscle. His skin was warm and smooth beneath Sherlock's hands, his muscles hard. He ran his palms up John's shoulder, against his neck; thumbs straying into his short hair. His slid his hands down again and begin massaging John's shoulders in ernest. His blood was steadily making its way to his cock as he continued rolling John's muscle in his hands. The sight of him - skin, slightly more pale on his back than his hands or face; hair, short and slightly mused in the back due to Sherlock's thumbs; and body, sturdy and compact. The smell of him - shampoo, soap, and deodorant all mingling together with the aroma of the massage oil. The feel of him - _good god_ , the feel of him - warm, solid body, hard muscles beneath soft skin, and smooth, silky hair. Sherlock dug his thumbs into John's shoulders, trying to loosen the muscles. His cock pulsed as he had an overwhelming desire to lean down and replace his fingers with his teeth.

Sherlock continued with his massage, closing his eyes tightly in an effort to control his body. It was almost terrifying, the affect John had on Sherlock. That he could turn Sherlock on so much by doing nothing more than lying there, bare-chested, was a frightening thought. Sherlock's lower body ached as he ran his hands over John's shoulders and down his arms. He began kneading both of John's biceps with his hands, not so much because it was the next part of the massage, but more because he wanted to grab the man so badly that he needed to occupy his hands somehow to prevent himself from doing so.

He breathed out heavily and ran his hands back up John's arms. He made nothing more than a passing observation that John was breathing heavily too as he brushed his palms along John's shoulders once more and down to his back. Sherlock braced both hands against John's ribcage, fingers splayed out and grasping John's sides while his thumbs ran up along his spine, pressing deeply into the muscle. His cock pulsed again as he had a vision of lifting John's body from the bed and pulling him tight against himself. Oh! but he wanted to be smothered by this man. He wanted John to be all around him and against him and within him. He wanted to bite him, suck his skin, taste him everywhere. _God!_ The smell of his shampoo was driving Sherlock mad.

Desperate, he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed as he continued trying to work out the knots in John's back. Images of John in various sexual poses kept flitting across his brain, but he had experience in dealing with this situation, and was able to continue the massage while trying wholeheartedly to will them away.

Oh, John's skin was glorious - his body was glorious. Sherlock ran his palm down the length of John's spine and back up again. He did it once more, pressing his palms deep into the muscle tissue. John grunted and shifted on the bed a bit before turning his face away. Sherlock looked at him, only able to see part of John's cheekbone and forehead, but it was enough. He became dizzy with want and longing and a deeper emotion he hadn't quite figured out yet. He ran his hands up and down John's back, trying to get enough of his brain under control in order to give John a proper massage. He doubted he would be able to fully alleviate John's pain after just one massage, but perhaps, he could convince John to make this a weekly thing? That would be perfect. He could work towards ridding John of his back pain while also getting a chance to touch and explore John's body.

His brain helpfully supplied images of Sherlock massaging John's chest and calves and thighs and cock. His own cock surged and he leaned forward, writhing in unfulfilled need. Oh, but he would be phenomenal at massaging John's cock. He would start slow at the base, gripping it loosely, and pull up a little, not quite reaching the head, before stroking back down again.

Sherlock's fingers gripped harder as he forced his hands to continue massaging John's back.

He would squeeze his fingers together very lightly while continuing to slowly stroke the base of John's cock. John's hips would be circling and John would be gently moaning, wanting more, but not getting it just yet. No. No, Sherlock would continue with his slow, light strokes on the base of John's cock and his other hand would come up to gently cup John's scrotum.

Sherlock had to look up at the ceiling and breathe deeply out his mouth at the thought of feeling the corse hairs surrounding John's testicles.

Yes, he would softly roll John's testicles in one hand while the other continued to lightly stroke the base of John's cock. Oh god, John's hips. John's hips would start thrusting up softly at first, but then, more insistent as Sherlock would continue to refuse to increase his speed or tighten his grip. John would ask him, _Please, Sherlock, oh god, please._ That. That would be Sherlock's undoing. _Yes, John_ , he would say, grasping his scrotum firmer and stroking him all the way from root to tip. _Oh! Oh god_ , John would moan, thighs shaking, breath coming fast. Sherlock would do it again, running his thumb over the head of John's penis, spreading his precum in a wide circle. Those glans, glistening with John's precum, would make Sherlock's mouth water and he would have to taste it. He would bend down and place those delicious, moist glans against his lips and just sit them there as he would watch John. John would be breathing heavy, eyes closed, knowing what's about to happen, before looking down to determine why Sherlock stopped. As soon as John looked down, Sherlock would lick his lips, John's head included, and push just the tip of the glans into his mouth. _Oh, FUCK!_ John would moan wantonly. God! That sound would turn Sherlock on so goddamn much. He would close his eyes against the rush of desire that would over take his body in order to focus on the task at hand. The glans. He would gently suck on them, using mostly tongue, no teeth. John would babble Sherlock's name and card his fingers into Sherlock's hair. Oh, but that would feel so bloody wonderful. Sherlock would moan, sending vibrations to the head of John's cock, which would make John moan in turn. Sherlock would move to licking the glans, keeping the tip in his mouth, unwilling to part from it completely just yet. John's cock would be pulsing, and Sherlock would need to hold it at the base to keep it from moving too far. Sherlock would flick his tongue against John's corona before running it along his frenulum. John would gasp loudly and push his entire lower body off the bed, resulting in his cock sliding deeper into Sherlock's mouth. _Fuck, yes!_ Sherlock would take him in, suppressing his gag reflex as best he could to take in as much of John's cock as possible. Almost all thought of technique would dissipate as he would bob his head down and John would thrust his hips up. Sherlock would try using his tongue to massage the shaft and head of John's cock during each stroke, but he would be unsuccessful at doing so every time. He would be so goddamn hard himself that the only thing he would be able to think about would be _John_ , and _yes_ , and _good_ , and _more_. He would wrap his arms under John's thighs and grab on tightly to John's hips. _Ah! God! Sher--!_ John would exclaim as stream after stream of ejaculate would pulse out of John's cock and into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock would swallow as quickly as he could and reach back to grab and stroke himself to orgasm as well.

Sherlock came back to himself, breathing heavily, unsure about what happened during his mental absence, or even how long he had been fantasising for. He glanced at the clock beside his bed - a full hour had passed. Sherlock tried to calm his body down, but he was as hard as he had ever been before in his life. He looked down and saw that he had continued massaging John's back during his fantasy, but he had left deep red streaks from where his fingers had pressed down too hard against John's skin. Sherlock laid his hands flat upon John's back, anchoring them there, and breathing deeply, attempting to get himself under control.

His hands raised and lowered with John's ribcage as John breathed in and out deeply as well.

They stayed there, unmoving, for a long time. Eventually, John spoke up in a rough voice, "Thank you for the massage, Sherlock. I'm sure I won't forget it anytime soon."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Certainly, John. Any time you need one, I'll be happy to assist."

John nodded. "Do - do you mind getting up? I think I might... go to bed and... rest for a bit."

Sherlock nodded and stood up shakily.

John crawled out of bed, careful to keep his back to Sherlock, gathered his shirt and vest in hand, and left the room without bothering to put them on.

Sherlock watched John leave and close the door, then listened to him walk upstairs into his room. He turned to the bed and flopped down in the exact same spot John had just been occupying, burying his nose in the sheets. Oh god, it smelt like John. He unbuttoned his trousers, pulled his penis out, and began stroking himself while replaying the images that had bombarded his senses during the massage.

It wasn't everything, but it was something, and Sherlock was determined to live with making do.


	18. Climax

To: sh@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: roundhay@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

Subject: Devil's Work! Please Help!

Mr. Holmes!

The devil has been at work in our small parish. One of my flock was visiting his brothers and sister last night, but when he went to visit them again this morning, the two brothers had gone insane and the sister was dead! The housekeeper fainted at the mere sight! In one night, two lives were ruined and one ended! Please help us, Mr. Holmes!

Reverend Roundhay

 

 

 

 

 

  
"The devil?"

"That's what the e-mail said, John. 'The devil has been at work.'"

John scoffed. "That's not like you - taking supernatural cases like this."

"Well, obviously, the devil was not actually involved. I'm interested to find out how two men of sound mind were driven insane over a single night and how the sister died from seemingly unknown causes. I have a few theories, but I want to investigate the crime scene before deciding upon any of them."

John nodded and leaned back in his seat.

They swayed in their seats as the carriage rocked gently and the train sped southwest to Cornwall. Sherlock had rushed upstairs to John's room at 6:00 that morning, shaking him awake and imploring him to hurry up and get dressed so they could make the 7:06 train to Redruth. It was much more convenient, Sherlock decided, having John just upstairs and being able to run up and coax him out of bed, rather than having to text him and hope he'd see Sherlock's message in time. Yes, much more convenient, Sherlock reiterated as he watched John drag himself, fully dressed, down the stairs. Much better. He smiled and pushed them both out the front door.

Sherlock was sat beside John, trying to work out the case as best he could with the very limited facts Roundhay had presented to him. Obviously, the information provided by Roundhay needed to be taken into consideration with an air of skepticism - the clergy generally being a preferred profession for the family idiot. Nonetheless, Sherlock was required to consider the information to best solve the case.

The facts of the case as he knew it were these: Mortimer Tregennis was playing cards with his two brothers and sister until approximately 11:00 last night. It had been raining hard and was quite foggy, but Mortimer insisted on walking back to his house. He returned to visit his siblings early the following morning around 5:00. The door to the room he had occupied the previous night was locked and he needed the housekeeper to open it for him. Upon entering, they saw the two brothers sat at the table, babbling incoherently and laughing maniacally to themselves, and the sister dead in her chair. The housekeeper fainted and Mortimer ran straight to Reverend Roundhay to obtain his advice and assistance. Roundhay contacted Sherlock via his website e-mail and Sherlock took the first train he could get to Redruth to investigate.

He looked over at John, who had fallen asleep in his seat - slouched back, arms crossed, head tilted to his side. Sherlock smiled, watching him a moment longer, before placing his fingertips together, leaning back, and closing his eyes, himself. They were in for a long train ride.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Reverend Roundhay, this is my close friend and associate, Doctor John Watson."

John held out his hand. "How do you do?"

Roundhay shook it. "Not very well, Doctor, I'm afraid." He turned back to Sherlock. "They had to take the brothers away, but I managed to convince them to keep Brenda there, God rest her saintly soul."

"Then we should hurry." Sherlock waved his arm for Roundhay to lead the way.

 

 

 

 

 

  
When they arrived at the house, a young man with a close cropped beard stood up quickly. An older woman with greying hair pulled back into a tight bun was sat beside him. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?" The man asked anxiously.

"Yes, and I presume you are Mortimer Tregennis?"

He nodded.

"We must examine the body and the room first, but I will want to ask you some questions regarding last night when we are through."

"Of course." Mortimer sat back down slowly as the older woman began crying into her hands anew.

As they made their way through the house to the room in question, Sherlock shot John a questioning look.

John shook his head and murmured, "Sentiment."

Sherlock nodded and brushed the matter off as unimportant as they entered the room. The first thing he immediately became aware of was the stuffiness of the room. He observed that a window had been thrown open, but the air in the room remained dense, almost difficult to breathe.

"Not hard to see why the housekeeper fainted," John muttered, waving a hand in front of his face as if to clear the air himself.

Sherlock took out his magnifying lens and spent some time examining the corpse. After he was satisfied, he waved to the body. "John?"

John's eyebrows rose, but he obediently walked across the room. "You do realize I'm a GP and not a pathologist, right?"

Sherlock smirked. "Humour me."

John looked at him unapprovingly for a moment before turning his attention to the corpse. "Uh... Female, obviously. Looks to be about mid-thirties. No outward signs of bruising or cuts, suggesting there wasn't a struggle." He leaned closer to the woman's face. "No sign of bruising on the neck, suggesting she wasn't strangled." He sniffed. "Smells a bit off, but it could just be the room - pretty damn stuffy in here."

Roundhay cleared his throat.

"Oh, sorry, Reverend." John stated.

"John?" Sherlock asked, trying to reestablish his attention.

"Yeah, I don't know, Sherlock. Possibly poison? Like I said, I'm not a pathologist."

Sherlock uttered a put-upon sigh. "I always live in the hope that one day, you will be able to sort it out for yourself."

John glared at him.

"Well, then, back to business." Sherlock twirled around and began investigating the rest of the room, spending a great deal of time at the window and fireplace. After approximately thirty minutes, he turned to Roundhay. "Alright, you can let them know that I am finished with the corpse. I need to investigate the garden, but I would like to speak with Mortimer Tregennis in this room after it has been cleared."

Roundhay nodded and left the room.

"What do you need from me?"

Sherlock turned to John and simply watched him for a minute before replying. "Watch Tregennis and the housekeeper, I'll need your input as to their character when we are done here."

John nodded and left.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Now, Mr. Tregennis, I need you to explain exactly what happened here last night."

Tregennis stood at the door and Sherlock stood beside the fireplace while John and Roundhay were sat at the table. Tregennis nodded shakily. "I had stopped by for a visit last night. We all decided to play cards. I was there," he pointed to the seat backing the window, "Owen was there," he pointed to the seat John was currently occupying, "George was there," he pointed to the seat across from the window, "and Brenda was there," he pointed to the seat Roundhay was in, closest to the fireplace. "It was getting late and pissing down outside..."

"Mortimer," Roundhay reprimanded.

"Sorry, Reverend. Uh, it was raining very heavily outside. I didn't know how long the rain would last, but I didn't want to stay overnight, so we decided to quit playing around 11:00 so I could leave."

"Was that before or after the fire was made?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The fire." Sherlock pointed to the fireplace, full of ash and soot.

"Oh, um, after. I asked if they wouldn't mind if we started one. I've had a cold for awhile and haven't been feeling the best, especially with the rain and all."

"That explains the stuffiness of the room." John turned to Sherlock who smiled back at him. "It was fairly warm last night as I recall."

Tregennis looked away sheepishly. "My siblings made the same remark last night."

"So you left at 11:00. Did you see or hear anything suspicious?"

"No, I didn't see or hear anything. My walk home was wet, but uneventful. Then, this morning, well, actually, every morning, I walk about the town to get my exercise in, but this morning, I wanted to stop by to return the umbrella Brenda lent me, but when I got inside, I found them as I described - Owen and George laughing and muttering insistently and Brenda leaned back in her chair, dead."

"So, what is your theory, Mr. Tregennis?"

He stared at Sherlock for a moment. "My theory? Isn't that what you're here for?" He scoffed and sent a questioning gaze at John and Roundhay.

"Well, this is clearly not the work of the devil as the devil is a ludicrous fiction told to children by adults to frighten them into behaving."

Roundhay gasped.

"You say you played cards with your siblings until 11:00, then walked home and neither saw nor heard anything. We know something happened right around the time you left because your siblings were still sat in the spaces you identified and because the cards are still on the table." He picked up a card in demonstration - ace of spades. He flicked it back onto the table. "The timelines are so close together, I can't help but ask you again whether or not you saw or heard anything remarkable or suspicious."

Wide-eyed, Tregennis shook his head convulsively. "No. No, there was nothing, except..."

"Yes?"

"Well, when we were playing cards, George kept looking over my shoulder, like maybe he saw something. I turned around to look out the window myself, but I didn't see anything. When I asked George about it, he said he thought he saw something, but decided it must have been nothing."

"And you didn't think this was worthy of mention earlier?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Well, no. I thought nothing more of it until just now."

"Clearly, since you were comfortable enough to walk home alone after potentially seeing someone or something peering in through the window," John added.

"And speaking of that, how could your brother have seen anyone or anything outside at that time? It was dark, rainy, and fairly foggy. The person or thing would have needed to be right against the window for your brother to have seen it."

Tregennis shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "I... I don't know - I'm not sure. Like I said, I didn't see it."

"So, your theory is that this person or animal entered the room directly after you left it, without being noticed by you, drove your two brothers insane and killed your sister so quickly that your siblings had no time to get up from their seats and so quietly that you did not hear anything as you were leaving?"

Tregennis shrugged his shoulders again. "I guess? I don't know. I suppose so. I wasn't here, so I don't know what happened."

"Very well." Sherlock made for the door. "John and I have some investigating to do. I'm sure we'll be seeing you very soon, Mr. Tregennis. Reverend." He nodded to them both as John stood up and followed him out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Sherlock and John were tracking Tregennis' footsteps from last night when a rough voice called out to them.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

They turned to face a large, gruff man with a full grizzled beard and hard set eyes.

"I am and I believe you are Dr. Leon Sterndale, are you not?"

"How do you know of me?" Sterndale demanded.

"You are quite infamous in your own right from your work done in South Africa, both as a hunter and a philanthropist - two professions, I must say, which seem rather incongruous."

Sterndale's tight smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"What can I do for you?"

"What have you learned about Brenda Tregennis?"

Sherlock turned to John. "Word does travel fast."

John tilted his head in agreement.

Sherlock turned back to Sterndale. "It only happened this morning, how did you hear of it and get here so quickly?"

"I was on my way to South Africa when a mutual friend called me and told me what happened. The Tregennis' were close friends of mine. I left the airport immediately."

"The airport? You missed your plane then?"

"This is a bit more important than catching a plane, Mr. Holmes. I'll book another one."

"What about your luggage?" John asked.

"Damn the luggage! Just tell me what you know about Brenda Tregennis! Have you any suspicions as to who murdered her?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "You suppose she was murdered then?"

A dark cloud passed over Sterndale's face. "Don't you?"

"I have formed no theory upon the matter at present."

"Then I am wasting my time!" Sterndale stormed away, leaving John and Sherlock standing together.

"What do you think, John?"

"Seems a bit over-interested to me."

Sherlock smiled and cupped a hand on John's shoulder. "Interested, yes. Over-interested, I'm not so certain."

"He sent his luggage on to South Africa."

"True, but if he were the guilty party, would he not have gone with his luggage?"

John acquiesced as Sherlock squeezed his shoulder before letting go.

 

 

 

 

 

  
The following morning, Sherlock and John were sat in their hotel dining room, when Roundhay burst in.

"The devil has struck our poor town once more, Mr. Holmes!"

They turned to look at him, surprised, along with a few other patrons.

"You laughed, but he has struck us down again!" Roundhay flopped down despairingly in a seat at their table.

"What do you mean?"

"Mortimer! He is dead!" The dining room was completely silent; all eyes were on Roundhay. "I stopped by this morning to offer him some comforting words, but he would not answer my call. I was certain that mischief was afoot, so I forced my way into his house, but when I got in, I found him as dead as poor Brenda!"

Sherlock turned to John excitedly. "John, we must go."

John glanced around the dining room, "Yeah, I'd say so. Come on, Reverend." John hoisted him up by his arm as Sherlock tossed some bills upon the table.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Roundhay, visibly upset, led them into Mortimer Tregennis' bedroom. Tregennis was sat in a desk chair, head thrown back, limbs stiff, face contorted in a horrified expression. Sherlock strode inside, taking out his magnifying lens to observe the room and stopping to examine the body, desk, and window more closely. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope and a penknife. He scraped off some substance from the top of a lamp upon the table into his envelope before closing it and folding it back into his pocket.

"Well, Reverend, I need to run some tests, but I believe I have isolated..."

The door opened before Sherlock could say anything more and a Detective Inspector walked in with three Detective Constables. "What the bloody hell is going on here?" The DI barked out as his eyes fell upon Sherlock and John. "Who are you?"

"We are here at the request of Reverend Roundhay." John gestured to the reverend, who stood beside him, affronted.

"Roundhay, eh?" The DI leveled his gaze on him. "You the one who called in the death?"

Roundhay nodded.

The DI's eyes narrowed. "You also called in the other Tregennis death too, right? Barbara?"

"Brenda," Roundhay corrected. "Um, yes, I did on behalf of Mortimer."

"Mortimer? The dead man?"

Roundhay's eyes misted over. "Yes, sir."

"Fairly convenient, ain't it? Dead men can't corroborate a story, now, can they?"

Roundhay stepped back, insulted.

"Inspector... Lanner," the DI's gaze shot to Sherlock, "if you would care to direct your men to the lamp over on the table and to the window before it, I think you would find ample evidence to help you solve your case."

Lander narrowed his eyes. "What is this? Some kind of joke?"

"Not at all. I'm merely offering my advice. It's up to you whether you choose to take it or not."

Lanier scoffed. "I don't need any help from some amateur, wannabe detective. I have training and experience on my side, what do you have?"

"Brains." John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock smirked. "It was merely a suggestion." He turned to Roundhay. "Well. It seems as though you now have the assistance of the official police, so you won't be needing me."

Roundhay looked at him pleadingly and opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I guarantee you that this should not happen within your parish again. If it does, contact me, and I will be right down, but I am certain that this is all over."

"But, who did this? Will there be no justice for their deaths?"

"I am working on that and feel confident that I will reach a satisfactory conclusion."

Roundhay looked as though he wanted to say more, but simply nodded and said, "Thank you for your time and assistance, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded and left the room with John in tow.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"What are you doing?" John asked, wide-eyed and disbelieving. It had been a long, five-hour train ride back to London, but Sherlock wasted no time moving one of their lamps to the kitchen table and pulling out the envelope he had filled while in Mortimer Tregennis' room.

"I'm going to isolate the effects of burning this substance. If my supposition is correct, it is the cause of the Tregennis' deaths."

"That's ridiculous, Sherlock! If it caused their deaths, wouldn't it also kill us?"

"I've opened the window and only plan to burn a small amount. We may feel some small effects, but we should be fine."

John look at him, worried and unconvinced.

"Now," Sherlock continued, looking over the lamp before him, "let's see what this substance does." He sprinkled a small amount onto the lamp guard.

Instantly, Sherlock became overwhelmed with a terrifying sense of confusion. His vision grew wildly distorted and his hearing warped between different pitches and intensities. "Jah!" Was the only sound he could force out of his mouth - his lungs felt like they were collapsing in on him and he was struggling to breathe. His body was lifted off the ground and he had a momentary delusion of ascending to the skies. Colors and lights blurred past his eyes and in the distance, he heard a firm voice calling to him, but he couldn't make out the words. All movement seemed to stop as his awareness slowly crept back to him. First, his hearing slowly balanced itself out to where sounds were more level, but understanding was still not there. Then, his vision cleared a bit to where objects took on familiar shapes, but he had no recognition of what the shapes were. Next, his breathing and voice returned to normal, he no longer felt as though his lungs were being constricted, and he could hear himself talking, but could not make out what he was saying. Finally, _finally_ , his brain began to clear and the first thing he became conscious of was John standing before him, holding his head in his hands in a vice-like grip. His face was a perfect study of worry and his voice was full of concern. "Sherlock?!" He implored desperately. They were no longer in the kitchen. John must have carried him upstairs to John's bedroom because that's where they were currently standing: Sherlock facing the closed door and John facing the window that had been thrown wide open. "Sherlock?!" John implored again.

"Mmm," Sherlock acknowledged, creasing his brow and closing his eyes in pain.

"That was the most fucking ridiculous thing you have ever done in your life!" John's grip on Sherlock's head didn't let up a bit. "My god! You could have died!"

"Please forgive me, John. It was an unjustifiable experiment, especially with you in the room." Sherlock reached up to hold onto John's wrists and looked at him with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Am I...?" John whispered, unbelieving, brow still creased as he searched Sherlock's face. He suddenly shook his head and pulled Sherlock's head down - lips roughly pressed against his own.


	19. Resolution

Sherlock stood there, for what seemed like hours, completely uncomprehending what was happening. John's fingers were gripping his face, his hands were holding Sherlock's head steady, and his lips were pressed tightly against his own. His lips. John's lips. John's lips against his own. Against Sherlock's. Just pressed there. Waiting. Now starting to pull away.

In that instant, Sherlock realised what was happening. A growl emanated from his throat as he grabbed the back of John's thighs, hoisted him up, and crushed him against the closed door. He sought out John's mouth again and licked John's lips, trying to press in deeper, as he leaned his entire weight against him, preventing him from escaping.

John moaned, opening his mouth and tilting his head to allow Sherlock's tongue to press in.

Fantasy had _nothing_ on this. Nothing. It was the palest of comparisons. The feeling of John's tongue against his own - wet, slightly rough, insistent - it was so much better than Sherlock had ever imagined it would be. He tilted his head to press in deeper. John's inner cheek was smooth, his teeth were hard - canines deliciously pointy - and his hard palate was firm, but Sherlock's absolute favorite was John's tongue. God! His tongue was miraculous. He swiped his own against it. Papillae rubbed against papillae. Sherlock shivered at the sensation.

John's taste. Sherlock groaned headily. He tasted so damn good. He ran his tongue over John's again, and again. There was just no comparison. There was nothing to associate John's taste to. It just tasted like danger - Sherlock groaned again - and companionship - he pressed his hips hard against John's to keep him lifted up against the door - and admiration - Sherlock ran his hands up along John's sides, rucking his shirt up in the process - and home. The man just tasted like fucking home. Like he belonged there. Sherlock would have scoffed at the analogy if he hadn't been so damn preoccupied pressing hard against John to keep him up on the door, grasping his sides so hard, he was surely leaving bruises, and snogging the man senseless, running over his tongue again and again, cock getting harder with each pass.

John hooked one leg over Sherlock's hip, wrapped an arm around Sherlock's neck, raised himself up a bit higher, and pressed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth.

 _Oh_ , but that was even better. Sherlock's moan felt wrenched from depths of his body as he sucked on John's tongue before circling and flicking it with his own.

John huffed out two quick breaths out his nose as he clenched his fingers in Sherlock's hair tightly and thrust his hips lightly into Sherlock's side.

All question of how and why fled from Sherlock's mind as he picked John up, turned, and collapsed on top of him on the bed. John wrapped a leg around Sherlock's waist and threw both arms around his shoulders. It wasn't enough. He grabbed John's head, pressing his tongue deep into John's mouth, coaxing John's tongue back into his own. But, it wasn't enough. He thrust his hands into John's hair, deeply embedding and intertwining his fingers. It still wasn't enough. He pressed his whole body down onto John, trying to get as close to the man as physically possible, but it still wasn't enough. He was surprised to hear himself whimper in choked-up frustration.

John tore his mouth away and looked up at him, hazy, but concerned. "Sherlock?" he breathed heavily. "Are you okay?" His hands slid over Sherlock's back and shoulders.

He shook his head - he didn't know what to say - "I... I..." His eyes roamed all over John's face. He was overwhelmed - underwhelmed. He wasn't sure. He wanted John. God, how he wanted John. He wanted John so badly, but none of it seemed to be enough.

"Is it too much?" John breathed, lips red and swollen from where Sherlock ravished them.

God, he wanted to ravish them some more. "No," Sherlock denied. "No, it's... it's not enough."

John smiled wickedly, Sherlock had only a moment to register that wicked smile, before John grabbed ahold of his torso and flipped them both around to where Sherlock was lying on his back with John straddling his hips. "Let me help with that." John turned Sherlock's head slightly to the side and sucked on his neck.

"Gah!" Sherlock shouted, thrusting his hips up into John. He clawed John's back and hooked his legs over John's waist as John continued sucking and biting Sherlock's sternocleidomastoid. His heart was beating over time and there was nothing in the world but this moment and John. Oh god, John. Sherlock ran his hands under John's shirt to scratch at his back. The feeling of John's warm, soft skin under his nails was enhanced tenfold by the lusty moan that emerged from John's throat.

" _Fuck_ ," John moaned and licked down Sherlock's neck to his clavicle. He sucked and bit at the skin overlaying the bone while his palms ran up Sherlock's sides under his shirt.

Sherlock shuddered violently and gasped out a shaky breath. That felt so much better than it probably had any right to. Oh god, John's hands - strong, capable, sturdy hands - sliding up and down Sherlock's sensitive skin. So good - so damn good. Sherlock arched his hips up into John again, trying desperately to get closer. More. Oh, fuck, he wanted more.

"You've got..." John panted, sitting up on his knees, Sherlock's legs still wrapped around his waist, "you've got to take this off." John's eyes were on Sherlock's shirt and he began undoing the buttons shakily.

Sherlock lay there, watching John, hands running up and down the top of John's thighs. He was so... beautiful. His hair mussed from Sherlock's fingers, his lips swollen and red from Sherlock's mouth, his eyes dark, his breathing quick, his fingers shaky, but making quick work of Sherlock's shirt. A wave of lust rolled through his body as he was once again struck with the realisation that this was John and this was real. "God, John," Sherlock moaned longingly. John glanced up at him, heat and desperation in his eyes, as Sherlock looked back pleadingly.

John threw Sherlock's shirt open and bent down to capture Sherlock's mouth again. Oh, but the feeling of John's shirt rubbing against his bare torso was exquisite. Sherlock ran his hands down John's back, over his arse, and pressed John down as he thrust himself up. Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ , he could feel John's erection press against him. His awareness shrunk down to the feeling of John's cock sliding against his own as he thrust up again, harder.

John tore his mouth away and gasped, "Ah! Sher-!" His eyes were squeezed tight and his face was a picture of concentration. He thrust down and rubbed himself against Sherlock twice more before growling and pulling Sherlock up by his open shirt into a sitting position. He crushed his mouth to Sherlock's again and pulled the shirt down his shoulders.

Sherlock's arms were pinned to his sides by his shirt and for a few moments, he could do nothing but sit there and accept the onslaught of John's attentions on him. John was kneeling on the bed, Sherlock's legs locked around his waist, body pressed tight against him, and tongue plundering his mouth. He needed to touch John. It became absolutely essential for him to do so. Desperately, he fought against the restraints of his shirt, until he was finally able to get one arm free. He reached around John's back and pulled him even closer to himself. He shook the shirt off his other arm and reached it around John's back as well, locking John within his embrace.

John's hands ran up and down Sherlock's chest as best as they could with the limited space that was available. Oh fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Sherlock's brain shorted out and he arched into John's touch as John's pinky grazed over his nipple. A sound Sherlock had never heard himself utter before was ripped from his throat as his body lurched forward, pushing John backwards to the bed. He began sucking and biting John's neck while attempting to unbutton his shirt in as uncoordinated and quick a manner as was possible.

John held onto Sherlock's back, crying out in surprise and ecstasy, twisting his head further to the side to offer Sherlock more access to his neck.

Sherlock groaned and continued sucking up and down John's neck until he finally got John's shirt open. That damn vest. Sherlock pulled off of John's neck to look at it. That damn vest that had been the main theme of Sherlock's late night fantasies. He put his mouth to it and bit, catching John's pectoral muscle in the process.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock!" John gasped, hands flying to Sherlock's head.

"This vest," Sherlock breathed aggressively. "This vest has plagued my dreams," he alternated between speaking and biting, "ever since that fucking move." He bit down again, catching John's nipple this time.

"Gah!" John shouted, thrusting his hips into Sherlock's.

Sherlock ran his hands down John's torso, then up his sides to his shoulders and tried to yank John's outer shirt off.

"Here," John breathed, pushing Sherlock away so he could sit up.

Sherlock pulled the shirt off and let it fall to the floor as he stared at John's torso. "My god, John. You've no idea what this vest did to me." He ran his hands up John's chest, over his shoulders, and down his back.

John scoffed. "My vest? How about your bloody bare chest?" John ran his hands over Sherlock's pectorals. Sherlock closed his eyes, hummed appreciatively, and threw his head back. "I mean, for fuck's sake, Sherlock, how did you expect me to do anything with you walking around like this?" John ran his palms over Sherlock's nipples - he gasped out and clawed at John's back - "I wanted nothing more than to strip you down and take you then and there, public decency laws be damned." John leaned forward and licked up Sherlock's chest.

"Knowing that... would have made... ah!... the move... so much... aw, fuck!... better!" Sherlock groaned out the last part as John's tongue circled around and over his nipple. Sherlock arched into him, fingers desperately grabbing at John's back for something to hold onto. He felt as though he were in another plane of existence. All he could register was the wetness and slight scratchiness of John's tongue as it lapped and swirled around his sensitive skin. His nerve endings all felt aflame and his cock was rock hard, leaking vast amounts of precum. It was both too much and not enough at the same time. He desperately wanted to push John back down and continue exploring his body, but at the same time, he didn't want the sensation to end. Just as he was on the verge of losing all control, John pulled off and guided Sherlock's head back down to his. Sherlock felt like he could kiss John for the remainder of his life and never tire of it. The closeness he felt anytime he was with John was magnified a thousand times over when his lips were pressed against John's, tongue exploring his mouth.

Sherlock ran his hands up and down John's back, loving the feel of the ribbed vest beneath his fingers. He continued rubbing John's back, kissing him languidly. He moved over to John's neck, pulling him in tightly, as he mouthed down to where John's neck met his shoulder.

John lay back down, pulling Sherlock on top ofhim. "For so long, Sherlock."

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed as he dipped his tongue in the hollow created by John's trapezius muscle and clavicle.

"I've wanted this for so long. Waiting for you has been hell."

Sherlock smiled and bit at John's clavicle before making his way further down. "Yes, it has been," Sherlock agreed and ran the length of his tongue across John's nipple over his shirt.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed his head and arched his back, pressing his chest harder against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock lathed John's nipple with his tongue, soaking the vest with his saliva. Before long, Sherlock could feel the hard ridge of the erect nipple and gently bit down on it.

"Ah!" John shouted, arching his back nearly a foot off the bed.

Sherlock moved over to John's other nipple and licked and sucked on it too. Right as he gently bit into it, John made a strangled noise and flipped them both over, fumbling desperately with the zip of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock barely had any time to think about what was happening before John pulled his trousers open and stroked his cock over his pants with an open palm.

"Oh fuck, John!" Sherlock's penis pulsed within the confines of his pants - straining to get closer to John.

John pulled Sherlock's trousers off his hips and down his legs to pool on the floor with the other discarded clothes. He ran his hands over Sherlock's thighs and shins, coarse hair running between John's fingers.

Oh, how blissfully wonderful it felt to have John's palms running over his bare legs. It was soothing and tense at the same time. An absolute paradox, John was proving himself to be. Sherlock desperately, _desperately_ , wanted John's hand on his cock again, it might just have been the best feeling Sherlock had ever experienced in his life, but, honestly? he was enjoying the sensation of John's hands roaming over his body so much, he couldn't be arsed to do anything about it.

John's hands stroked down Sherlock's legs to his feet and he slowly removed Sherlock's socks before running his hands back up to Sherlock's thighs. John sat on his knees between Sherlock's spread legs and slowly ran his hands up the V-juncture where Sherlock's thighs met his pelvis. He spent a long time stroking his fingers up and down the crease between Sherlock's thigh and pelvis while Sherlock's penis twitched and pulsed, leaking drop after drop of precum. Sherlock droned on in an unending, drawn out, helpless moan. His hips twisted and gyrated, trying to get some pressure on his cock, but John was ruthless in holding back. Just when Sherlock didn't think he could take anymore, John switched his angle and ran both hands up over Sherlock's cock from root to tip.

"Ah!" Sherlock shouted and trusted his hips deeper into John's hands. "Fuck, John! John, please!" He begged, thrusting his hips again. His eyes were clamped shut, trying desperately to keep ahold of himself.

John groaned and leaned forward to lick Sherlock's length over his pants.

"Gah!" Sherlock's entire body spasmed. "Oh please, John. Please!" Sherlock's voice was hoarse. He didn't care how needy he sounded, he just wanted to feel John's mouth on his cock again. "Please? Please, John, don't stop. Don't stop, please." He was rambling now, he knew it, but he couldn't be arsed to care as John's tongue swiped over his cock again and again. Oh, it felt so bloody good, but the friction from his pants was just starting to get this side of uncomfortable. He reached down to remove his pants when John's hands covered his.

"Let me." John's voice was rough and the deepest Sherlock had ever heard it before. He looked up at John's face and swallowed at the dark lust shining out brightly from his eyes. Sherlock was unable to get any sound out as his penis surged again and he merely nodded his head, eyes never leaving John's face.

John pulled Sherlock's pants over his hips and down his legs to join the rest of the clothing on the floor.

A combination of the cool air rushing against his penis and John's face full of desire sent another wave of lust through his body and his penis twitched up in excitement and desperation. Precum was spilling out of the silt in a near constant stream and his head was glistening as a result.

John breathed out heavy and went straight for Sherlock's cock. He grabbed the base of it and without any preamble, shoved the head into his mouth.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, hands immediately grabbing onto John's head and fisting in his hair.

John moaned wantonly and sucked up Sherlock's cock, stroking the base with one hand and running the other along Sherlock's side and stomach. He continued sucking, bobbing his head a bit as he did so.

Sherlock was sure he was going to die. He was certain of it. His heart was pounding, his breath was coming heavy and fast, his entire body was shaking, all of his nerve endings were firing off, and he could think of nothing, _nothing_ , except for John's mouth on his cock. God! The wet slide of his lips and tongue along the hard length of Sherlock's cock was maddening. Every so often, Sherlock's cock would twitch and John's resulting moan would send delicious vibrations down his shaft which would only serve to heighten Sherlock's arousal even more. He was losing it and losing it fast. He could feel his impending orgasm, but didn't want to come just yet.

"John! Oh god, John, please! Please stop!"

John pulled himself off with obvious reluctance, gritting his teeth and wincing as if in pain. "Sherlock?" He questioned, cracking one eye open to look up at him.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, trying to bring himself back from the edge. "John, oh fuck, John, come here. Come up here, please." He sat up a bit and grabbed at John's shoulders to pull him up.

John crawled up Sherlock's body willingly and Sherlock pushed him over onto his back. He deftly unzipped John's jeans and quickly pulled them off John's legs. He palmed John's erection over his pants and John huffed out a breath, hips squirming.

Sherlock bent down to kiss the inside of John's knee as he continued to gently stroke John's cock through his pants. He kissed higher on the inside of John's thigh and higher still as John's squirming quickly became thrusting. When Sherlock got to the junction of leg and pelvis, he licked over John's scrotum, fabric scratching along his tongue as he did so.

"Ah!" John shouted, lifting his hips off the mattress.

Sherlock couldn't wait a second more. He sat up, pulled John's pants off, wrestled John's vest off, and thrust John deep into his mouth.

"Fuck, Sherlock!" John groaned at the sudden onslaught of sensation.

Sherlock thought fleetingly of apologising, but was too fucking turned on to care about anything other than the feel of John's hard cock in his mouth. Oh, it was unbelievable - fantastic! Sherlock ran his tongue up John's length and could taste John's precum. It was slightly bitter, but the smell that Sherlock associated with John was so concentrated within the taste of his penis, that Sherlock barely acknowledged the bitterness. It was heady - absolutely spellbinding. Sherlock ran his tongue around John's glans and across his silt.

"Sher-ah!" John gasped, tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair and thrusting up to push himself deeper into Sherlock's mouth.

It was glorious, absolutely, fucking glorious. He felt he could sit here, sucking John all day. He ran his palms up John's body like John had done to him earlier. The feel of John's bare skin against his own sent a wave of arousal coursing through his body and Sherlock knew of nothing more than the fact that he needed John. He needed John _now_.

He pulled off. "John," he panted hoarsely, "come here." He lay down beside John, reaching out for him, and then pulled him on top. He wound his legs around John's back and readjusted John until their cocks lined up.

"Fuck yes," John breathed, reaching a hand down to grasp them both together.

Sherlock reached his arms around John's shoulders, thrusting against John's cock and into his hand. "John," he moaned, "oh god, John." He looked into John's eyes.

John looked back, brow pulled down in concentration, eyes searching Sherlock's.

"Day one, John," Sherlock gasped between breaths as he continued thrusting with him into John's hand. "I didn't know it then... but I've loved you since day one." His eyes remained locked onto John's as he held on tighter, moving one hand to the middle of John's back and the other to the back of John's head. "And everyday... I just love you more."

John smiled and huffed out a laugh as he continued thrusting. "You're a lunatic," he gasped, face slackening with his impending orgasm, "but I love you... for that." His thrusts started getting erratic as he eked out, "you're _my_ lunatic," before his entire body shuddered and his penis pulsed out stream after stream of ejaculate.

Feeling John convulse against him sent Sherlock over the edge and his orgasm ripped through him as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through his body.

John collapsed on top of him and they both groaned in unison.

Sherlock's brain was blissfully peaceful and quiet. He wasn't thinking of anything except the sound and feel of John breathing in and out. They lay there together, silent, sticky and damp, but too relaxed and at ease to care. John's body was warm and heavy, which would have had a soothing effect on Sherlock's mental state had Sherlock been capable of thinking of anything other than John's breathing at the time. After what felt like hours, but was most likely mere minutes, the ticking of the clock came back into focus, then the sounds of the cars driving past outside the window, then the distant sounds of Mrs. Hudson wandering about her flat, until finally, Sherlock's brain fully came back online and the world stood out in stark focus.

John reached over without looking, pulled open a drawer of the end table, and pulled out a flannel. He set about wiping them up half heartedly, not bothering to sit up or move his body in any way, before tossing the soiled flannel on the floor.

"It's you." Sherlock said suddenly, experiencing an epiphany.

"You what?" John slurred, lifting his head slightly off Sherlock's chest to look at him.

"The sonata," Sherlock implored, looking down at him and running his hands over his back. "The violin sonata I've been composing for the past several months - _Violin Sonata in C Minor_ \- it's you. The whole song is you. The title should be  _John_."

John smiled at him, eyes warm. "Not much of a title for such a beautiful song."

Sherlock huffed exasperated. "I could return to _Violin Sonata in C Minor_."

John's smile grew. "No, I like _John_  better."

Sherlock smiled back and hugged him tighter. "Me too."

John nodded and closed his eyes as Sherlock pulled the duvet up to cover them both. "Don't think this means I'm not still upset about the experiment downstairs though."

Sherlock smirked.

"As soon as the room is aired out, you're going to go down and clean all that up."

"Of course, John." Sherlock said through his smile as John's breathing evened out and he slipped into sleep. Sherlock watched him, feeling euphoric, until the heavy weight of sleep descended upon him as well, and he too fell into a deep, peaceful rest.


	20. Epilogue

Sherlock watched the front door through the windscreen. John had been in there for 58 minutes precisely and was due out soon. He huffed in irritation at the fact that he was unable to gather this information himself. There were many things John was brilliant at - making tea, kissing, and doing this thing with peas for dinner, although, that might actually have been someone else - however, he was much better at conducting light than providing a source of luminescence himself. Sherlock wasn't certain that John would be able to ask the right questions, gather the right information, or make the correct observations necessary to break this case open, but there had been no other viable options available. Sherlock was forced to wait and see what John came back with.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and let his mind wander. It had been roughly four months since the Tregennis case and since then, he and John had engaged in sexual activities approximately one to four times a week - generally more frequently directly after a case and less frequently when engaged in an active one. Sherlock had been surprised - and, if he was being honest with himself, was still surprised - at how easily it all seemed to fall into place. They never experienced any awkward moments of uncertainty, unsure where their new line should be drawn, but rather, they both jumped into this new realm of their relationship feet first. They both gave when they wanted to give and they both stopped the other when it was just too much at the time. John understood Sherlock's need for mental focus during a case and Sherlock understood John's need for sleep - ridiculous as the notion was to him.

John kept his bedroom upstairs, but as the past four months wore on, the boundary lines between 'John's bedroom' and 'Sherlock's bedroom' had rapidly diminished. There were nights when they would both sleep in Sherlock's room, others when they would both sleep in John's room, some nights when Sherlock and John would sleep alone in their respective rooms, and even occasionally, a few nights when they would sleep alone in each others' rooms, although, admittedly, that was rare.

Not much had changed in their day-to-day life, with the exception of sex and fleeting, or sometimes lingering, touches throughout the day. Sherlock continued admonishing the public at large for their stupidity and John continued apologising on his behalf, reprimanding him in private for his behaviour. John continued working at the surgery, having switched from locum work to a permanent position, and Sherlock continued encouraging John to beg off in order to investigate cases with him. Sherlock continued inviting John to join him in his cases and John continued casting those cases in a new light, helping Sherlock see new aspects of the case that had previously been hidden.

Sherlock glanced through the windscreen again, thinking how perfect the past few years had been and wondering vaguely when the other shoe was going to drop. He looked at his watch, unease slowly seeping through him. 3:11. John should have been finished eleven minutes ago. What was keeping him? Thoughts of bodily harm and injury swirled through his brain and without realising what he was doing, Sherlock stepped out of the car and headed straight for the entrance. He felt hyper focused - too busy being concerned with finding John and satisfying himself as to his welfare to properly take in his surroundings. It wasn't until he stepped through the entrance and his eyes fell upon John, standing at the counter, speaking with one of the receptionists, that the rest of the world came back into view. He heaved a deep breath in and slowly released it along with all of the tension he hadn't realised he had been holding onto as John turned around and smiled at him brightly, but confused.

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask John why he had been loitering, when a woman's voice rang out.

"Oh my god! Sergei! How are you?!"

Sherlock's eyes widened as John pinched his lips together, trying to hold back the laugh that threatened to escape. He slowly moved his gaze from John to the receptionist sat behind the counter and recognition immediately set in: Patricia.

She stood up and made her way around as Sherlock's brain scrambled, desperately trying to concoct some escape plan that would help him get out of this situation. He glanced at John pleadingly in a last-ditch effort for interference, but the bastard just continued biting his lips to suppress his mirth and shook his head. Bloody tosser.

Before Sherlock could so much as glare at John for his lack of assistance, Patricia strode up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, forcing him to bend down awkwardly to accommodate her height.

"I didn't think I'd see you again and then in came John Watson asking for a massage! I said to myself, 'Well, Trish, if anyone is going to know anything about our Sergei, it has to be John Watson.' So, I stopped him on his way out and asked him about you."

She was still clinging onto his neck and Sherlock glared at John heatedly who did nothing more than stand there, arms crossed, grinning from ear to ear. Wanker.

"And he said he had seen you about, but he didn't tell me you were with him today!"

Finally, _finally_ , she let go and Sherlock straightened himself out pulling slightly away as she turned to glare half-heartedly at John, who schooled his features immediately.

"John! How could you not tell me Sergei was with you today?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, Patricia, I didn't know he was going to be here."

She whipped her head back to Sherlock who took a minuscule step back. "Sergei!" She asked excitedly. "Are you planning to come back to the Zen?"

John snorted unconsciously before attempting to cover it up with a series of fake coughs.

Patricia turned to look at John, confused, and Sherlock glared daggers at him.

"No," he drawled, accent coming out full, rich, and deep. "No, Patricia, I not come for work. I have other job - pay more wage. I come for John."

Patricia had turned back while Sherlock was talking and frowned. "Oh, that's such a pity, Sergei. We had so many people asking for you after you left. A few of our clients even left the Zen when you did, but I guess you already know about that, well, at least about John."

"Yeah, yeah, we, uh, we talked about it," John stated, slightly uncomfortable.

Patricia laughed and gestured back to John. "This one was so cut up about you leaving that he refused the massage he just tried to schedule and then," she laughed harder, "set about asking every person who walked in the door if they had worked with you and might know where you were."

"Yeah, Patricia, I already told him that." John's ears and cheeks were turning red. Sherlock looked on smugly.

Patricia laughed a bit more and marched on, undeterred. "He was at it for hours! Finally, Don - you remember Don, right? - Don had to kick him out!"

"Yes, thank you, but we really need to get going, right _Sergei_?" John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled back. "Of course, John."

John nodded and made a beeline for the door when Patricia stopped them.

"Oh wait, Sergei! I _have_ to know - were we right?" At Sherlock's confused frown, she continued, "About John, you know, the soldier? Were we right?"

Understanding passed over Sherlock's face. "Ah, yes, the soldier with the nice body." He turned to John, heat in his eyes as John pinked even more. "Definitely."

Patricia smirked. "I knew it."

"You arse," John muttered and Sherlock laughed as they turned and walked out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

  
"Nice body, huh?" John asked as they made their way back to their hired car.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed affirmatively. "Surely, the last four months leave no doubt in your mind as to my answer to that."

John huffed out a laugh as they climbed in, Sherlock at the wheel. After a few moments of silence, broken only by the sounds of them adjusting and strapping themselves in, John breathed out, "Four months."

Sherlock glanced at him quickly before turning his attention back to the road and pulling out into traffic.

"Do you know, when I was talking with Patricia in there, she told me that my last appointment was a year and four months ago?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed.

"And my first appointment was two years ago today." He huffed out a laugh. "January 29, 2018 - exactly two years ago." He turned to Sherlock who glanced back, expression unreadable. "What a coincidence."

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock more than muttered.

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. It's just something Mycroft used to say when we were younger. It doesn't matter."

John was about to say something, but Sherlock pressed on.

"What does matter is the information you gathered from your session with John Ferrier."

John watched him a moment longer before nodding. "Well, he sounds American, but I've been fooled by an accent before." He glared half heartedly at Sherlock, who shook his head, sighing exasperatedly. "He didn't seem to know London or the U.K. political system very well. When I mentioned Drebber's death from the papers, he didn't seem upset or surprised about it. Only stated that it's 'a crying shame when people get murdered' and that the reporters were likely to have a 'conniption fit' about it." He shook his head and spread his hands wide. "Not sure what else I can tell you. He was a bloody awful masseur," John winced, grabbing his shoulder and rolling his neck as he did so.

Sherlock smirked and glanced sideways at John. "Don't think you can con me into giving you another a massage, John. I've caught onto your tricks by now."

John huffed out a breath. "They aren't tricks, you bloody wanker. The man was fucking awful. Probably did more damage than good. Besides, I seem to recall the last few massages you've given me ended nicely for both of us, so don't pretend you don't get anything out of it."

Sherlock smiled as he turned the car off the Strand and onto the A4. "Is that all? You learned nothing else?"

John thought back. "I mean, I don't know. He smelt like cigarette smoke. How much information do you want?"

Sherlock pulled the car around towards Waterloo Bridge. "He is either definitely American, or has done his research remarkably well. He is clearly not a professional masseur, as I'm sure you will attest to. He just recently started working at the Zen, a small glance at the appointment book on Patricia's desk told me as such. And he obviously knows more about this Drebber case than he'd like us to believe, he specified that Drebber was murdered when you merely stated that he died. Had I been the one to question him, I'm sure I could have gleaned more from him, but I feel we can move forward just as well with the information you gathered." He parked the car at Waterloo Station and moved to get out.

"Glad I could help," John murmured, put-upon.

Sherlock stopped and turned back to him. "John, in the two years I've known you, you have helped me solve 78 murders, 95 thefts, 8 missing persons, and 63 miscellaneous crimes and inquiries. You are an essential component to my work, my life, and my happiness. I had the work before, but that was all I had. Life held no true purpose other than one distraction after another to keep myself occupied until my eventual descent to the grave. Now, I have a reason to wake up each morning. Having you with me in my work and in my life is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I mean it when I say that had I not met you two years ago, I would be wandering around aimlessly still - purposeless, dejected, cold - a mere fraction of the man I am today. Do not doubt your usefulness or necessity when it comes to me. I love you, John, and need you far more than you could ever know."

John looked at him, a bit stunned, before breaking out into a full fledged grin. "See, now THAT was a trick."

Sherlock watched him. "You..."

John laughed.

"Bloody wanker! You made me sit here and make a complete arse of myself..."

"Oh, but Sherlock, you said such nice things!"

Sherlock glared at John as he laughed before breaking down and chuckling himself.

"Come on," John encouraged, "let's go find this Strangerson and see if we can prevent him from suffering the same fate as Drebber."

Sherlock leaned over in the car and kissed John quickly. "I knew I loved you for a reason."

John smiled as they got out. "It's for my nice soldier body. Don't deny it."

Sherlock smirked, grabbed his hand, and led him to the station. "There's that too, John."

Hand in hand, Sherlock slightly ahead due to his longer strides and tugging John earnestly onwards, they made their way quickly to the station - the promise of another successful conclusion and future cases and adventures laid out before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finished! (Yay!)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, and written comments as I wrote this. Considering the fact that it took me 3 months to write the first 6 chapters and only about a month to write the remaining 14 chapters, I'd say you all were definitely encouraging! I doubt I would have this story finished or fleshed out this much had it not been for you all, so thank you so much. It really means a lot to me. You all are amazing! <3


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